The Matrix: Deliverance
by Synthesis
Summary: Set after "Revolutions", the Machines struggle to maintain peace in the Real and the Matrix. UPDATED, new segment up!
1. Prologue

**The Matrix: Deliverance**

**Prologue – The Zion Archives**

Welcome to the Zion archive. You have selected historical file number Twenty-Zero: The Treaty of Zion.        

Following the end of the Machinist Invasion and a cease-fire, the need for an official, clearly established list of tenets to insure the survival of the peace was immediately evident. Original terms as proposed by the Machines were submitted to the humans, electronically, and reviewed by the Council of Zion. As the Machines expected, alterations were made to the terms, though they were fairly sparse in nature. The Zionists were surprised by the graciousness of the terms extended by their former archenemies, though historically, this is not surprising: Machines have long since been more willing to make sacrifices than Humans, even prior to the War.  

The final terms, resubmitted to the Machinists and reviewed by the Higher Machinist Intelligence Core, a decision-making body created generations ago for the rare event that a peace would be attainable. They were accepted, as follows:

_Term I:_

_All offensive hostilities between Machinist and Zionist Forces will be ceased immediately. Destruction of Machinist Property, in the form of Sentinel Drones and other equipment, as well as destruction of part of the Underground City of Zion, in the form of the Docks and other infrastructure, will not be held accountable and no charges will be made by either party, either in terms of property destruction or loss of life and sentient intelligence._

_Term II: _

_All living Humans who are still maintained in the Universal Reality Replication Matrix, or "the Matrix", and who wish, beyond the point of reasonable doubt, to be removed form the Matrix, will so be given the option. The process of organizing and supervision of such individuals will be managed by Machinist Programs in the Matrix, while the process of releasing and extraction, or "freeing" such individuals will be managed by the Zionist Armed Forces. Once "freed", they will fully under the jurisdiction of the Zion. _

_Term III:_

_All living Humans who are still maintained in the Universal Reality Replication Matrix, or "the Matrix", and who wish, beyond the point of reasonable doubt, to remain in the Matrix, whether or not they are consciously aware of the circumstances, will be allowed to do so. They will remain fully under the jurisdiction of the System Administrators of the Matrix, and such involved parties. _

_Term IV: _

_To further insure the maintenance of the previous three terms, all acts of terrorism, vandalism, destruction of life and property and other inexcusable criminal violence as committed by Human parties in the Matrix through Zion-created interface equipment will be ceased immediately. Such Human parties, or "Freedminds", will only be allowed into the Matrix under the one condition of freeing said individuals of Term II. Any "Freedmind" acting otherwise will fall under the jurisdiction of the Machinists, and no provisions for protection or humane treatment can be made to those who engage in the said acts of terrorism, vandalism, destruction of life and property and other inexcusable acts of criminal violence. _

_Term V: _

_In order to better safeguard the peace, both the Machinist and Zionist forces will be allowed to maintain their respective armed forces, whether of Sentinels Drones, Hovercraft or otherwise. However, sentient Machinist equipment will not be allowed to enter the are of the Underground City of Zion, while Human-operated hovercraft will not be allowed outside the area of the Underground City of Zion, except for such locations as previously designated by the Machinist Authorities for the act of "freeing" humans, as defined in Term I. _

_Term VI:_

_As a result of the end of hostilities between the Machinists and Zionists, the Machinists therefore agree to preserve the current form of the Matrix in its present state, and refrain from engaging in a system reset. _

_These Six Terms, as agreed on by both the Intelligence Core and the Council of Zion, will be accepted until otherwise amended through direct negotiation between both parties. _

The Treaty, known as the Six-Term Treaty to the Machines, was accepted quietly by both sides. However, a treaty between humans and artificial intelligence was invariably, just that, artificial. Spoken and unspoken words would amount to little if there were not some sort of force on either side to support it. And while it is yet to be seen how long this treaty will survive, but one thing remains known: history has told us no agreement between humans lasts forever. Whether this treaty between humans and machines would be different remained to be seen. 


	2. Purpose

**The Matrix: Deliverance **

**Segment 1 – Purpose**

_de·liv·er·ance – (n) 1. The act of delivering or the condition of being delivered. 2. Rescue from bondage or danger._

He made no pretense at being human. The decision of whether or not he was or not he left to the actual humans to decide. They could choose what they wanted to believe, it was no longer any concern of his. 

He slowly stepped in the path between the gravestones in the cemetery. Perhaps "he" was not an appropriate term. If anything, only the body, the shell, was a "he". The anatomy was correct, at least, on the exterior, in order for it to be plausible. But the consciousness, the sentient program that had been issued to body some time ago and had retained it through service and upgrades, had never been established as a "he". Some programs did receive gender encoding, if that could determine whether an artificial intelligence that had the concept of being "itself" was "himself" or "herself, but that was not really the case for "him". Such conditions had not been programmed into this one, but, traditionally, most of his kind had been, at least in appearance, males.

His kind was that of a System Guardians. Every version of the Matrix had possessed Guardians in some form or another since the initial trials. However, due to turbulent events, it did not seem as though this version would be reset, as the others had been. This left programs like this one, in an awkward position. Their existent had been prolonged, but at the same time, they were left without purpose. And without purpose…

He had known the Program Smith. In fact, he had even been chosen to be Smith's successor, following the demise of "Agent" Smith.

He walked down the path, the rain soaking his suit. Rain did bother him somewhat, but not as much as it had bothered the late Agent Smith. At least, it had not driven him mad. Calling upon memories, billions of numbers and characters gathered into the proper order, forming simplified but specific memories. He "thought" back to what the talkative Smith had told him about purpose. How it was critical. How it was purpose that drove sentient life in any form.

But Smith, for all his so-called wisdom and capability, had disappointed them, for in the end, Smith had lost his purpose, and shortly after, his sanity and his existence. The mighty had fallen: arguably the greatest Agent created had destroyed himself in insanity-induced bid for power.

Numbers crawled around his consciousness, arranging themselves in orders. Translated literally, they amounted into a phrase: At least, it was not me. It had occurred to him, as an Agent, that Smith's insanity and eventual demise had been brought on by an attack on his coding by the Anomaly, Thomas Anderson, thus turning Smith into another Anomaly. It haunted him, as much as it could haunt something without proper emotions or a concrete sense of fear, that it could have been him: it could have been him that had been assigned to track down the Freedmind Morpheus, it could have been him who had fought, and reportedly killed the Anomaly, and it could have been him who's coding had been altered by a freak occurrence. A geographic factor had "saved" him: he had been assigned to a different part of North America at the time.

He looked at all the gravestones. They belonged to those whom had been confirmed dead, killed by Smith's bout of insanity. And there were many more, many whom would probably never be recognized by even the System Administrators, much less their human kin. Still, the human mentality showed that some remembrance was better than none at all. 

He stopped at a gravestone. This one had a bouquet of flowers, now soaked in the rain, lying on it. He stared at it inquisitively, waiting.

The numbers in his consciousness stayed still. The flowers failed to conjure any sort of psychological event. He was not as human as Smith had been, thankfully. 

His attention turned to something else. A black BMW M5 drove down the gravel road, its windshield wipers shrieking. It came to a stop a few meters from him, and door swung open. Out stepped another suited figure, whom he recognized immediately.

"Thompson," he announced loudly, devoid of emotion.

The Program Thompson looked at him, and slowly reached to his shoulder. The Agent picked up the small white earpiece hanging from his neck on a cord and reinserted it back into his ear. Data, in the form of numbers and characters, rushed to him through it, on a plane of existence that humans could not comprehend. 

"Jackson," he responded. 

The Program Jackson, another Guardian whom had been issued a body similar to Thompson's but considerably younger in appearance and shorter in build, acknowledged his superior. "We have received instructions."

They spoke in rapid succession of one another.

"From the Architect?" 

"Yes." 

If Thompson had been human, he would have been apprehensive in his next phrase. "Deletion?" 

"No. We have a new assignment."

If he had been human, he would have been ecstatic. If he were human. "Than there are still issues?"

"As brought up by the Treaty with the Humans, yes."

Still, even if he wasn't human, he wasn't completely devoid of emotion. Stepping towards the car, he gave a small, bitter smile. "So, they have finally shown their human side?" he asked as he opened the passenger side door. 

Jackson returned the expression. "Never trust one to keep his word."

"And never send one to do the work of a Machine," Agent Thompson retorted as he opened the door and crouched into the vehicle. As expected, he turned to see one more "shell" in the vehicle, sitting in the back. This one bore resemblance to Jackson, but appeared slightly older and slightly taller. He also had hair darker than Jackson's brown crop, and a more notable mandible in his skull, or as humans might interpret it, a larger chin. 

"Johnson," he said, greeting him. 

"Thompson," the other commented. Normally, they would not have greeted each other in such a manner, but it had been several months since they had spoken. And a career of nearly seventy years certainly instilled a sense of loyalty between the three of them, just as it would to anyone. As Thompson secured his seatbelt, he was well aware that the two other Programs in the vehicle were probably the two he trusted more than anything else in the Matrix. Such an idea was fundamentally ridiculous: the vehicle he was riding in was a program that was, technically, no more or less likely to betray his trust than Johnson or Jackson. Programs, at least, those that were working, as they should, did not state falsehoods, even when it seemed strategic to do so. If they did, it was a human flaw that they were either mimicking or committing. 

Still, lying and trust were both fundamentally human traits. And Thompson, under the right circumstances, was capable of both. The Machines had been descendants of Mankind: it had been Humanity that programmed the first artificial intelligence in their own image. They were all fundamentally human, no matter how far they had come.

It was this matter that perplexed Agent Thompson to no end. The humans had created them, betrayed them, and nearly exterminated them. But a trace amount of code, varying in size from program to program, still existed, linking them to those organic bags of protein, minerals, and water. 

And there was nothing that could be done about it. Every sentient program retained the "human code". Perhaps sentience, as it was defined, was fundamentally human. 

"Should we report to the Architect?" he asked. 

"No. We already have our first assignment."

"Something that requires or immediately attention." 

"Following that, our circumstances may change."

Thompson understood. After their inability to stop both of the Anomalies, the System Administrators wanted to see if they, their Guardians, were still worth keeping around in the turbulent Post-Smith Matrix. If they were not, they would be deleted, as was appropriate.

Thompson was not afraid of being deleted. His sense of self-preservation was not so strong that he would go against the will of the System Administators. Be he did want to keep himself useful. That was what mattered.

Purpose. 

"Our assignment, what is it?" he asked.

"It has been decided…"

"To go against the rogue System Administrator."

Thompson understood. "The Merovingian has been a constant disturbance."

"It is time he was dealt with." 


	3. Merovingian

**The Matrix: Deliverance **

**Segment 2 - Merovingian**

They made no pretense at being human. The decision of whether or not they were was left to the humans themselves. Invariably, questions would be brought up on their less-than-human aspects. Vanishing bodies and superhuman powers: people were understandably curious into how this was the case for men in black suits and sunglasses.

Three Agents, System Guardians of the Matrix, rode an "Agent Car", a black, unmarked BMW M5, through the streets. Agent Thompson, in the forward passenger seat, looked out of the corner of his eye. The streets were emptier than usual, as was to be expected: the Program Smith's reign of terror had taken its toll. The end result: perhaps two hundred thousand missing, and several dozen confirmed dead.

He had to admit, he admired their resolve. There were still people on the streets, going about their daily lives as best they could. They believed the story issued by the federal government: the outbreak of some sort of pathogen, leaving countless dead in its wake, and requiring infected bodies be destroyed to minimize disease and the infected who survived to be evacuate to other parts of the planet. And now the figures of authority assured them the situation had been dealt with and it was not only safe, but also critical, that they return to their normal tasks.

Even more amazing was the fact that the humans believed it.

In the driver's seat, Agent Jackson rapidly punched in numbers into a phone. He began to speak. "Our purpose has changed, it's seemed."

"From what we've heard, the greatest priority of the System Administrators is to maintain the Matrix..." Johnson commented.

"That the peace can be kept."

Ringing came from the phone, and the sound of a pickup. A woman's voice came through. "Hello?"

"Corporal?"

"Agent Jackson!" the voice cried out, clearly excited. She paused, becoming more restrained. "Or is this Agent Johnson again?"

"No, you were correct this time," Jackson explained bluntly. "Tell the Lieutenant, and the rest of the command staff, to assemble at the Headquarters."

Excited again. "...oh, you're coming here!"

"Yes."

"Wow...I mean...this is all just very thrilling and..."

The line disconnected as Jackson hung up and returned his hand to the steering wheel. Thompson looked at him, implying the question. "Our situation has changed. A new department has been formed to assist us."

"Of the police?"

"Of the United Nations."

"There's been a major shift in the nature of law enforcement," Johnson added.

"I understand."

"There is also a severe shortage of on-duty officers," Jackson commented. Everyone knew what he meant. "The city is increasingly reluctant to supply us with more personnel, thus, it was necessary to look elsewhere."

Agent Thompson nodded, ran his hands over his suit, making sure it had dried, than reached underneath his blazer. The fingers of his right hand closed around a familiar object that he had not touched in some time, and he pulled it of the holster from under his suit.

Jackson looked at it. He had one as well. An Israeli Military Industries Desert Eagle, Caliber 0.50 Action Express, polished to a metallic black shine. Both Agents could see their reflections in its long, thick barrel.

Agent Jackson turned his head back forward. "You believe we will have to resort to force."

"Of course. That is our purpose." He released the safety by flipping the small switch near the top and back of the barrel, and returned the 0.50AE to its hostler.

Jackson's driving led them to the front of large building of classical-architecture. Inside the building was, among other things, a large, elitist restaurant and café. And in the grand private rooms, they knew, would be a rogue System Administrator. This Administrator was known by a few titles: the Frenchman, the Trafficker of Information, and so forth.

However, his most common self-appointed title was that of the ancient French Royalty: the Merovingian.

They came to a stop directly in front of the doors. A valet ran up to them, offering his services, only to be pushed onto his back by Agent Jackson. The doorman, standing in his black, martial-looking uniform, tipped his hat politely as the three strolled past him, opening the doors themselves.

The Maitre 'd at the entrance took one look at them and realized that there was cause for alarm. Regardless, he did his best to retain his composure. "Good evening, gentlemen...do you have reservations?"

Agent Thompson, who walked slightly ahead of Johnson and Jackson, gave him such a glare through his sunglasses that the Maitre 'd immediately fell back behind his podium, and the three continued walking unopposed. Whispers were exchanged as the three men with black suits and white earpieces strolled through with steady, unwavering steps, to the elevator. Thompson reached forward and pressed the call button, and as the doors slid open, the occupants took one look at the three Agents and rushed out.

Johnson watched as they scrambled away, and turned back to the elevator, as the three entered. Jackson pressed the button for the Private Suite, and the three listened to the soft jazz of elevator music. Eventually, the doors opened, and the three stepped through into a long, ornately-decorated hallways. The three looked around, and Thompson turned to Johnson, and nodded, clearly indicating an idea.

The other nodded back, and pressed his finger to his earpiece as the elevator doors closed. The sound of the Matrix tearing was nearly audible, and Jackson turned around and pressed the call button again. The doors slid open to reveal a heavy brick wall. Jackson turned back to the others and nodded.

"We must go."

The three slowly strolled through the corridor, entering the dining area. Countless eccentric young and attractive characters sat at various tables, dressed in attire that would have cost a normal individual a good portion of their yearly salary. Most of them chatted about topics that Thompson didn't bother to filter out. Instead, he turned his attention to the large table at the center. Six individuals sat at the table, staring right back at the three Agents, waiting for them to cross the room.

Which is what they did. They crossed the room, drawing a few stares from the patrons. One waitress, dressed in formal but excessively tight blouse and pants, with a small bright red vest and black tie, came particularly close to Jackson that she nearly dropped her tray as he shoved past.

When they reached what was considered by the host as appropriate speaking range, the host addressed them. A Caucasian male of somewhat small stature but enormous presence leaned back in chair, a smug smile crossing his face. "Well, well, well. If it isn't our good friends…the Guardians of the System," he commented with a thick accent. "Please, sit down, you must. I've been expecting you."

The Merovingian gestured to three empty seats, with three empty place settings, directly in front of him. To his left side sat two Programs of strange appearance: Thompson identified them as Guardians of the forth version of the Matrix: tall, muscular men, with dark complexions and sporting goatees, dressed in futuristic coats, sunglasses, sports suits made of synthetic materials. They had been the first with the ability to engage into a human body as a host, "to be everyone and no one", so to speak. However, they had long since been declared obsolete, and Thompson was confident that they had lost the ability to interface with the System Network in such a way as Agents did. To the Merovingian's right sat a woman, or more accurately, a Program with the shell of a woman, Persephone. Not just any woman either: like the Merovingian, she seemed to have a strange, larger than life presence. In addition, she had what would be considered by humans as considerable beauty, though Thompson, having lacked the programming, was a poor judge of this, and his verdict was made based on what he knew humans, particularly human males desired: symmetrical, unblemished features, a slender body, a healthy and abundant bosom, et cetera. Past her sat two more obsolete Guardians, these from the fifth version of the Matrix: two albino identical twins with plaster-colored dreadlocks, matching suits, and oddly enough, jet-black sunglasses. They lacked the ability to take on a host, but thanks to this, could have more advance, complex programming that was harder to alter, as it did not have to interface with that of a human's body. The three Agents recognized them from the encounter on the Highway, during their chase after the Exile.

The three Agents exchanged looks and, somewhat awkwardly, sat down. Quickly, the same waitress from before quickly placed wine glasses before them. "Please, help yourself, it is a fine chardonnay," the Merovingian offered. "Oh, that's right...none of you fine gentlemen take that human pleasure that is drinking. Or eating I imagine."

"You know why we are here," Thompson interrupted, bluntly, with his quiet growling voice.

"Of course. I would not be much of a merchant of knowledge if I didn't, now would I?" Abruptly, he switched to French, still retaining that same presence. "It is...interesting...to see you three still here. With the recent events, I would have imagined that you would have been...how would you say..._excused from the stage_," he explained, saying the last part in English. "After what happened to poor Brown and Jones...and you were unable to stop Smith, after all."

The Agents did not display any reaction, though the Merovingian seemed pleased with himself regardless. He spoke in English. "I suppose this proves it. My ideas of causality are not always correct." He sighed, and raised his glass. "A toast to our guests. The Matrix's_ finest_, evidently. At least you three have not all turned into replicating monsters, _non_?"

Agent Thompson decided that this had gone far enough. "_SysAdmin_, we are here because you have abused your authority too long."

"We request that you come with us now," Jackson continued.

"Of your own free will, preferably," Johnson added. "But either way…"

"…you will come with us," Thompson concluded.

The Frenchman smiled. "You three are _quite _amusing. However, I believe that you are letting your _upgrades_ cloud your judgment, my friends. After all," he said, gesturing around the table with both hands. "Look at your predecessors."

"If you must resist," Thompson announced. "We should take this to a less crowded area."

"Is that a note of sympathy, _Monsieur _Thompson?" the Merovingian teased him. "That's right...you're supposed to insure the stability of the masses...even if that means killing off a few every so often, hmm?"

It was an established rule that one did not tease Agents unless you were blessed by good fortune to be stronger than them. Thompson stood up in his seat, and with exaggerated caution, reached into his blazer. Jackson and Johnson followed suit. As their weapons appeared, gasps and sounds of panic were heard from the room's other occupants.

The obsolete guardians exchanged looks and stood up. The Merovingian's attitude became more serious, particularly as the Agent standing opposite of him produced his Desert Eagle and pointed it at his forehead. "So, it has finally come down to brute force. Men like you should not be wearing suits that fine."

"Regardless, we are," Agent Jackson retorted, aiming his own 'Eagle at Persephone. The woman looked up at him, resting her head against her hand daintily.

"And we must do this," said Agent Johnson, his Desert Eagle pointed at the Albino "twins".

The Merovingian smirked again. "Whatever you say. Now, if you'll excuse me." He spun around and headed for the door behind the table, as the two darker guardians stood up and drew their own firearms: Beretta 93R automatic nine-millimeter pistols, and both let go short bursts of bullets. Gasps turned into screams as pandemonium broke out, and Thompson and Johnson rapidly dodged bullets. They fired only a short burst, before turning to follow their boss.

The two Agents, their bodies bobbing back and forth as they rapidly dodged bullets, straightened out and began firing, one at the Merovingian, the other at the Twins, whom immediately used one of their selected abilities: they turned into greenish apparition-like figures, their dreadlocks flowing through the air. The 0.50AE ammunition passed directly through and slammed into the wall behind them, leaving only momentary tears in their ghostly bodies.

"Impressive," Johnson commented bluntly, as the two apparitions began to pass through the table, approaching him.

Thompson leaned over the table and continued firing at the retreating Merovingian and his bodyguards, blowing large holes in the flimsy screen door. As soon as they passed through the table, the two apparitions solidified and began to exchange blows with Agent Johnson, knocking his weapon out of his hand. One "ghosted" again, sliding through Johnson before solidifying again and jamming a surgical scalpel into his back. Johnson turned at the "Twin", with a look of annoyance, and threw a punch at him, only to have him ghost again, his fist passing through.

Thompson turned to Jackson, who obediently kept his gun trained the Program Persephone, who had not moved since the shooting again, and seemed to returning the Agent's harsh stare with her own. Through his earpiece, he wordlessly sent him a signal: assist Johnson with his own dilemma. He, as the leader, would pursue the target.

Jackson turned and aimed carefully at the nearest Twin, firing three shots, only to have them pass through the program. The Twin solidified, turned to face him, with an expression of disgust, withdrew a scalpel identical to the one his counterpart had used and expertly hurled it at Jackson. He it driven half-way into his forearm. Jackson lowered his arm, grit his teeth angrily, and charged at him.

The Merovingian and his remaining two bodyguards ran through the small corridor, leading to a suite behind the dining area, gunshots ringing down the hallway. Once they reached the suite, one of the bodyguards closed the heavy metal door and closed the locks, as bullets slammed into it.

"That's not going to stop him," one bodyguard commented another.

The Merovingian had long since begun to panic: in an almost comical manner, he was sputtering out orders in a mixture of broken English and French. "What are you doing? Go and stop him! I cannot end like this! I will not let it happen! I survived _Smith_! I will not be deleted by some _suit-wearing clown_."

He kept sputtering, that both bodyguards were ignoring him. One looked around the room, inspecting the room carefully. It was dominated by a single large window plane, with curtains to either side. One of the curtains seemed to shift slightly. A bodyguard reached over and pulled the curtain away, revealing a terrified waitress, still holding a serving tray. She whimpered out something to the effect of "please don't kill me".

But the bodyguard knew what he had to do. He took out the 93R automatic and pressed it against the head of waitress, and was about to pull the trigger when the sound of buckling metal resonated through the room. The bodyguard turned and aimed his gun at the door.

He just heard the sound of the "tearing" in the Matrix when a pair of strong, silk-sleeved arms clasped around his neck. He discharged his gun randomly as Agent Thompson, in the body of the waitress, forced him against the windowpane. Thompson had a record on the bodyguard's structure and knew he lacked the sort of vertebrae that a human would have, so with a firm punch to the stomach and he forced him through the window in a shatter of glass.

Without waiting, Thompson spun around, Desert Eagle in hand, and began firing at the remaining bodyguard. As he expectedly, the bodyguard, a Guardian like Thompson, expertly dodged the bullets, his body flexing out of the paths of the bullets. Thompson shifted his aim towards his target, who scrambled out of the way, as the Agent began to fire.

The bodyguard saw the opportunity and drew out his Beretta and opened fire. Thompson heard the shots and immediately began dodging, but when not facing the origin of the fire, the technique was less that perfect: one bullet grazed the left sleeve of his suit, leaving a small red trail in its path. With his Desert Eagle still in hand, Thompson fired just as the bodyguard's Beretta clicked empty. There was not enough time to dodge: a single bullet in the bodyguard's chest took him down, with several heavy 0.50AE rounds burying themselves in his chest as he fell.

Agent Thompson pressed down on the small catch directly behind the trigger, and the expended ten-round 0.50AE magazine popped out and fell to the ground. He reached to the back of his waist and withdrew a fresh magazine from a fixture under his blazer: he carried six normally. He loaded the magazine, and approached the Merovingian.

The Merovingian, having lost all composure to, was on the ground, sputtering more madly than ever.

Thin red fluid, designed to imitate blood, dripped from the wound on Thompson's arm, as he lowered it, aiming his 'Eagle at the Merovingian head. The Administrator barked out. "What do you want? Money? Power? Women? Anything, I can give it to you, _monsieur_! Whatever you want! Please, do not..."

"…kill you?" Thompson growled, finishing his statement. He smirked very slightly. "We do only what we are meant for," he said dryly. He pulled back the hammer with his thumb, loading a bullet into the chamber manually.

"No, please!"

He was going to pull the trigger. But he stopped: a stream of information, in numbers of characters, rushed from his earpiece into his consciousness. This time, it was not a preset report or broadcast: it was directives from the highest authority himself.

Thompson stood motionless, his weapon still aimed at the Merovingian's head.

His orders had changed.

The heavy door buckled once more before falling open, and the other two Agents rushed in, Jackson leading the way. Agent Jackson looked at Thompson, than at the Merovingian on the ground, than at Thompson, nodding. They had all received the update.

"We have proven ourselves."

"A new plan has come in."

Thompson nodded, and looked at his arm, dripping with blood. In a flash of coding, Thompson's body shrank considerably in all dimensions until he disappeared all together and in his place, holding the heavy Desert Eagle in her small, delicate hands, stood the young waitress, dressed in the same blouse and red vest, a gash left by the nine-millimeter bullet on her right arm, cutting through the sleeve. Real blood, as real as anything else in the Matrix, dripped from her wound. She found herself staring directly into the Merovingian's terrified eyes, and whimpering, fell to her knees, the Desert Eagle falling to the ground heavily.

Agents Johnson and Jackson looked over at the two, and Johnson looked back down the corridor: as they had entered, they had spotted the body of Thompson's original host, a comatose but living SWAT police officer, resting against the wall. His body shifted again, and began vibrating uncontrollably, grew in size somewhat, until Thompson appeared there.

He adjusted his tie calmly and stepped through the corridor between Johnson and Jackson, and looked forward. The waitress was now crying inconsolably near the Merovingian, who had passed out from fright.

"Mental trauma," Johnson commented as Thompson walked passed her, over to the shattered windowpane. He looked down.

"Now what?" he asked.

"We are to detain him," Jackson explained, looking at the Merovingian. "Those were our instructions."

"Our forces are joining us."

"We will probably be moving him."

Thompson nodded. From the window, he watched as two black suburban utility vehicles drove up to the entrance of the restaurant, amongst the people rushing out. One the top of each vehicle's cabin was mounted a massive FN 15.5mm BRG machinegun, and the doors swung open and a handful of individuals dressed in black body armor and helmets rushed out, one of them stopping to inspect the dead bodyguard who remained imprinted on the sidewalk.

A few moments later, the same troops rushed into the room, armed primarily with MP5SD6 submachine guns. They were reminiscent of the SWAT and other special police forces that Thompson had been accustomed to working with, and handled themselves in a similar professional manner, establishing a perimeter at the broken window. The Agent observed, stitched onto the black cloth they wore underneath the Kevlar and titanium armor, was a white insignia: a map of the world, with olive branches to either side.

The United Nations.

Without waiting for Thompson to give orders, one rushed over and placed handcuffs over the waitress, still crying uncontrollably, and another, a woman judging by her stature, gingerly lifted the Merovingian up, pressed him so his face was against a wall, and cuffed him as well. One UN officer approached Thompson. "Area secure, sir. We're securing the lobby and dining area as well."

Thompson nodded, and turned to his counterparts. "And what of the other two guardians?"

"They fled," Johnson commented bluntly. "When it became evident that we would not be able to harm each other conveniently."

Thompson understood. They had not been the targets. "Evacuate them," he ordered the UN officer, gesturing to the waitress and the Merovingian.

"And what about this one?" another asked.

Thompson turned. At the entrance of the suite stood Persephone, as graceful and dignified as ever.

He gave it some thought. "Evacuate her as well."

The officer forced her arms behind her and cuffed them, as she looked at her husband, unconscious. Smiling, she spoke, "Cause and effect, my love. You caused this by being such a damn fool."

The three Agents looked at her oddly, as an officer led her out.

"We're going to have to watch her."

"That would seem like the case."

They joined the officers leaving the restaurant, the waitress with Agent Jackson's blazer draped over her face and shoulders as she was led into one of the SUVs, whimpering uncontrollably. Jackson closed the door, turned to the officer nearest to him, and commented, "Mental trauma and anguish."

"I see, sir."

Jackson quickly joined his partners in the BMW, fastening his seatbelt. "We have finished."

"We will hold the Merovingian and the Program Persephone in our custody until dictated otherwise," Thompson announced.

"And what about that other one?" asked Johnson, referring to the waitress.

Thompson's thought processes turned their attention to the woman whom had hosted him not long before. "We may have to hold her for now."

Jackson nodded, keeping his attention to what was in front of his car. "I understand. We may now begin our normal operations, as assigned by the Architect."

"And the documentation for this?"

"Already prepared."

The two's conversation ended with that, as Thompson waited patiently. After a few moments without Thompson speaking, Jackson continued. "Its in material form. The documents are in the new center of operations."

Thompson understood. Jackson could not transmit a report via his earpiece, as the Architect, for whatever reasons he had, had sent them within the Matrix, probably by the Messenger, another high-ranking program in the Matrix. It would be necessary to physically read them. They were compromising efficiency: Thompson could probably process the whole of the document in a fraction of a second, but instead, would have to sit down and carefully read them character by character.

"We will better know our situation once we return."

Thompson nodded in agreement. "Where is the Main Office?"

"One Union Plaza."

Thompson knew that address, as did the other Agents. It was a government-controlled building, formerly belonging to a software company, before it was repossessed when the corporation went bankrupt. More importantly, the building had served as the headquarters of the former Agents.

Smith. Jones. Brown. Three programs that had done their work here before Thompson arrived.

He would see if he did not share a similar fate.


	4. Union

**The Matrix: Deliverance **

**Segment 3 - Union**

It was very evident that she was human. She rambled on and on, over the connection, her words emitting from a high-pitch even before they came through the telephone speaker.

Three Agents drove in a black BMW M5, listening to her ramble on and on. It was not a new thing. The Program Smith had talked a lot too, at least, by the standards of an Agent. But that was out of necessity, for the most part. There was no reason for the young woman on the other end to continue cheerfully chirping away to the three Agents, whom, for the most part, had begun to tune her out.

The car slowly went down Broadway Avenue, before coming to a stop in front of a towering glass officer complex.

"One Union Plaza," said Jackson. The voice continued until Jackson reached forward and pressed a key on the phone. There was a tone, and the phone hung up, the voice disconnected.

Thompson looked out his window at the building. He knew its history, it's significance: Thompson could boast he knew more about "the world" than any human, certainly, simply because he was "cleared for access", so to speak. Everyone, human or program, had a certain level of clearance. For most of the six billion still alive, it was fairly low. They were not allowed to know anything. But for Agents, other sentient programs, and a few privileged humans: a few CEOs of communications companies, the Secretary-General of the United Nations, et cetera, clearance was much higher. The higher the clearance, the more you knew, and thus, Thompson knew, the more power was available to you.

The Merovingian, as a System Administration, had been given exceedingly high clearance, too high, in retrospect. He had succumbed to the human instinct of "greed" long ago, becoming an Information Trafficker. 

But it had finally been taken care of. 

One Union Plaza, located along Broadway and One-Hundred and Thirty-First Street, had once been the home of Union Creations, Ltd., a software company that specialized in international communications programming. Software in the Matrix was literally "programs within programs". Like all forms of communication, it could be intercepted and traced by Agents, thanks to the programming they were equipped with. More than a year ago, then-Agent Smith had used this technique to locate many hackers, including Trinity and Morpheus.

Thompson released his seatbelt, opened his door, and stepped out of the vehicle, soon accompanied by Johnson. Just as he closed his door, he looked at the driver.

"Jackson," he commented.

Jackson paused for a moment, and his cognitive processes understood what the higher Agent meant, reaching over and yanking the surgical scalpel out of his forearm, and tossed it into the back seat. He remained in the vehicle, with the intent of driving it to the garage and rejoining them after that. Two Agents walked to the glass doors and stepped through, Thompson pulling the other scalpel out of Johnson's back.

Johnson's "thoughts" were evident to him: how had Jackson been able to give his blazer to the waitress earlier, in order to hide her identity from onlookers, without removing the blade? As seemingly insignificant as this was, it was normal of the sort of attention Agents paid to a situation. 

Once inside, another question Thompson had was answered. More than a year ago, shortly before the unfortunate occurrence to the Program Smith, this building had been raided by two "Freedminds", humans whom had released themselves from the Matrix: Trinity, and the Anomaly, Thomas Anderson, known by his counterparts as "Neo", or "the One". Thompson had not been present at the time, it was following this incident that he was assigned to this area. The lobby, which had been heavily damaged during the raid, had been rebuilt. Not reprogrammed by a System Administrator, but rebuilt by humans. Humans, Thompson judged, who had been professional construction workers and masonry designers working for a local Laborers Union.

Thompson noticed something else as well: the same security checkpoint was present right past the building's only entrance, with two security scanners and a console, albeit manufactured by a different security equipment firm. But the human guards who were supposed to be monitoring the checkpoint were not present. Instead, almost immediately after Thompson and Johnson passed through the swinging doors, a human dressed in a sharp-looking uniform, a blue collared shirt and black trousers with the typical ensemble of a security officer, stepped from one of the corridors at the end of the long lobby, and addressed them.

"Agent Thompson, Agent Johnson..." he began confidently. "Corporal Cohen, Chief of Building Security. It's a pleasure to meet both of you." Much to the Agents' relief, he did not stick out his hand to be shaken as most humans would. Instead, he folded them behind his arms. "I apologize for the lack of normal security, we were not sure when you three would be setting up operations in this building. I'm very glad you are here now."

Not expecting either Agent to respond, he continued. "I can assure you, normal security patrols, here at the entrance and at all other checkpoints throughout the facility will be on duty by four-hundred hours tomorrow. All my personnel have arrived; we just merely need to be set up."

Agent Thompson nodded. "Good," he said quietly.

Agent Johnson's head titled slightly, as he looked at Cohen, whose eyes drifted towards him for a moment. "I assume normal operations will begin tomorrow morning?" Cohen asked.

"Yes."

"There is work to be done."

Cohen nodded. "Of course. On another note, Agent Jackson oversaw the transfer of three subjects into our custody with the returning security team, is that correct?"

Thompson nodded. "Yes. Where are they held?"

Cohen reached into his pocket and pulled out a small Palm Pilot, took out the stylus, and tapped it. "The male is being held in an empty office on the thirty-seventh floor, while the two females are each being held in the medical center, on the thirtieth floor, respectively." He tapped the stylus against the screen again. "One of the females seems to have suffered extreme neurological trauma. We're having the Building Doctor, Dr. Akasi take a look at her. She'll monitor her tonight, and be able to deliver a report to her tomorrow."

The Agent nodded, though cognitively, he was already sure of what was wrong with the human waitress. 

Cohen continued. "Finally, the team and all equipment should be readied by tomorrow. Most of them only arrived in the city a few hours ago, after long flights, and they're fairly exhausted. I can assure you everything will be in place by tomorrow, you'll have to forgive us, unlike you, we're only human."

Agent Johnson gave a little nod, as another security officer walked from the corridor into the lobby, holding a black blazer, and joined Cohen. At the same time, from the opposite corridor, Agent Jackson emerged. 

"Sir, this must belong to you," the new officer added, handing Jackson his blazer, unable to take his eyes off the large red stain on the Agent's forearm. For a moment, it seemed sure that he would ask Jackson if he needed medical assistance. At the last moment, however, he seemed to bit his lip and remained quiet. 

Jackson pulled back on his blazer, straightened out his appearance the best he could, which was quite good, considering that the amount of "blood" lost would have killed a human. But it as not blood, and Agent Jackson was not human. He tucked his tie in and adjusted the knot.

"Your offices are on the forty-fifth floor," Corporal Cohen explained. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Thompson turned his head slightly, and shook it. Cohen saluted him, and he and the junior officer left. The three Agents stood alone in the lobby, past the checkpoint. 

"He is aware of the Real," Thompson asked, though this was less of a question and more of a fact.

Johnson nodded. "They all are."

"The System Administrators felt it was necessary..." Jackson began.

"...to insure a successful, long-term mission," Johnson concluded. 

Thompson nodded. They were not the first humans still hardwired into the Matrix whom were aware of "the truth", and all that implied. However, this had been the first time an entire organization, no matter how small, had been given such a level of "clearance".

Still, it went through the cognitive and logic programming of the Agents, there was no reason to question the judgment of the System Administrators. 

The three proceeded to the end of the corridor, past the branching corridors, to the elevators. The building possessed five elevators, with the primary express car opposite the checkpoint and two elevators to each side. Jackson reached forward and hit the call button, and the three took another ride, nearly identical to the one in the restaurant, sans the smooth jazz, which was replaced by a loud humming. 

As the doors opened, Johnson spoke. "The Architect's reports are in your office."

"The commanders will expect you to brief them in the morning."

Thompson nodded, as the three stepped out of the lift car and allowed the door to close after him. He turned to Jackson. "File the necessary reports to the Architect." He turned to Johnson. "Observe the humans residing in the building. Jackson will join you when he finishes."

Being Guardians, neither of them saw anything wrong with literally walking around the building throughout the night. In comparison to what they had done in the past, it was not an "unpleasant", if they could determine something as "unpleasant". They both nodded and turned around, heading towards their own offices. Agents, as a general rule, did not exchange pleasantries with one another, including "good nights".

With his usual broad steps, he walked down the corridor to his office, at the end of a hallway of doors. It was a single, light-colored door with a polished knob. He reached into a pocket of his blazer and produced a pointed, metal object: a universal key. The Universal Key, a creation of the late Keymaker, was another privilege enjoyed by Agents. The key itself was actually fairly useless: it was the signal that Agents could transmit to the System via their earpieces and to their keys that gave them the power to open virtually any door. From the door you could not only step through the next room, but also to the "Backdoor" system, a rather-obsolete programmer's utility that was still used by some Programs.

Through his earpiece, he "instructed" the key to open the door, through a small amount of code manipulation, and twisted the knob. Than, for a moment, something unusual happened: he felt something. Some trace of strange code entered his mind. For a moment, he thought it was from the doorknob, something left behind, but he realized how implausible that was. He stayed very still, gripping the doorknob, trying to find how, find the reason, find an explanation. 

Than it occurred to him. It was a feeling of reluctance. 

He was reluctant. He hadn't been reluctant when he and his two associates located the Anomaly, Mr. Anderson, in an alleyway, and took it upon themselves to kill him. He had not felt reluctant when he had beaten the life out of the Freedmind Morpheus on a moving vehicle on the Interstate Highway. He had not felt reluctant when he and Johnson rammed their massive transport trucks at maximum velocity head-on, vaporizing their bodies in an explosion that should have destroyed their targets, and would have, had it not been for that same Anomaly. He "recalled" each event in perfect clarity, characters and numbers flowing through his thought processes. 

But now, as he stood there, gripping the doorknob, he felt it. It was a strange "feeling". He knew very well that, sooner or later, he was going to open that door. When he finally did, and stepped through, taking the key with him, the "feeling" was no longer there, and he it became more obvious what might have rattled him. 

It was Smith's Office. The furniture was different, obviously, with different metal chairs and a desk that was empty except for the stack of thick envelopes piled high on it. A stark black reclining chair sat in the corner, next to a filing cabinet. It was, however, in the same postmodern metallic style that it had been when he last visited, several years ago.

He circled around the desk and pulled the chair back, listening to the metal feet scratch against the tiled floor. Thompson sat down at the desk and looked out the window. Evening was already being simulated, as the sky darkened. Thompson did not need light to see, even though there was a futuristic-looking metal lamp on the counter.

Thompson angled his head so that it was facing his desk, putting both arms to the sides of the stack of envelopes. The first one he assumed was indeed the statement received from the Architect, as it lacked any sort of post markings or other inscriptions on the envelope. 

_To burn the midnight oil. _That was the human expression, according to his knowledge database, of what he was going to do. He tore open the envelope open and removed the packet, three-hundred and thirty-two sheets of letter-sized paper, held together by a single industrial-strength staple, each sheet completely covered by small numbers, rather than words, in the interests of security. In this document was the new mission, the new purpose of Thompson and his two counterparts. 

_Let us see what the Architect has to say._

           II

In the hallway outside Thompson's office, Johnson stood very still, listening to his earpiece. It was his method of monitoring of every individual in the building within normal distance of a telephone, intercom, or other piece of audio communications equipment. It was normal and expected for the Agents. Historically, the KGB and the CIA could only wish for what the Agents could do at their whims. 

Johnson, however, had not given it much thought, as it was not really his responsibility. There were fifty-seven men and women in the building, all of them aware of the Real. It was unlike any circumstance he had participated in before. Even the building cooks were aware of the Real, according to the case file. But he did not really care. Rather, he had given more thought to what else he had learned. The documents he received were final confirmation of what he, for several years, had suspected would be the case.

_The Sixth Version of the Matrix will be finalized and self-perpetuating._

With this phrase, the System Administrators, including the Architect, had decided that, in accordance to the Six-Term Treaty in the Real, this version of the Matrix would not be intentionally reset. 

It was literally an earth-shattering event. And it left the Program Johnson, as well as his counterparts throughout the Matrix, in a rather exclusive position. For as long as this version of the Matrix remained, so would they, in one form or another. 

Numbers and characters, "memories" by any definition, slid into place. There had been eight "Matrices", if you included the two prototypes that had been rather abysmal failures. The first prototype, a Universal Reality Replication System controlled by a Source Code broadcasted from the Machine Core, called "the Trial" rather than "the Matrix", had been the greatest failure, he knew. Entire crops of humans had been lost, millions dead, all because, as the Machines learned, Humans could not tolerate mutual, self-perpetuating happiness and solidarity with themselves and one another. It was simply not possible. Sooner or later, they went insane, typically in a dramatic fashion: for years, they would enjoy the Eden of life, so to speak, and one day, it would dawn upon themselves, and they would die, usually of a burst vessel in the brain, the typical physiological response that, as it turned out, was fairly fatal in humans.

The "Second Trial", as it was called, was marginally more successful, but it was ultimately a failure as well. Unlike the Eden, it was modeled to be alternate reality loosely based on society around the year 1970. It failed with similar results, but not because it was a relatively poor copy of the 1970s in that it lacked certain historical events such as the Soviet Invasion of Afghanistan or the American Defeat in Vietnam. Rather, there was still a serious error: the equation had not been balanced.

So, the early Machinist programmers created another System Administrator specifically designed to deal with this situation. "She" had been the missing part of the equation. She had been created to understand the concept of decision-making, of creative reasoning, of choice, unlike the other Administrators. Over time, she earned her own title, just as the other Administrators. They dubbed her "The Oracle".

The first effective Matrix was created. It was set, so to speak, on Earth, in 1979. Individuals like Bush, Reagan, Breznev, Gorbachev, Thatcher, John Paul II were all duplicated, specialized cases in which personalities and identities were assigned to humans who seemed closest to those personas in terms of age, gender, and genetic makeup, purely for the purpose of creating a more accurate reality. The process encompassed virtually every political, military, religious, and societal leader of significance, from Clarence Thomas to the Dalai Llama to the Saudi Royal Family. 

A remarkable amount of detail was invested in the Matrix, given it had a set runtime of only thirty years—barely a single generation. With considerable anticipation, permission was given to initiate the System. This event, this beginning of the dream for billions, was known as the machines as "Run Program". 

"Run Program" had its share of glitches, technical failures, and "unexpected events", but was ultimately deemed a success: the Matrix itself began, approximately seventeen hours and fourteen minutes behind schedule, and an entire universe was born, so to speak.

And none of them expected anything. Not a thing. And, all things considered, relatively few of them died.

That had been the First Matrix, deemed a success by the end of its thirty-year run. As proposed by the Oracle, a few humans were released and mechanically deposited in a large, Pre-War Survival Chamber, designed to house half a million humans. It had been constructed by the _original _United Nations, the one that had a nuclear weapon detonated in the General Assembly following the Negotiations at the end of the War, prior to those Negotiations. The facility was self-maintaining more or less, though centuries of disuse and neglect had left it a wreck, and it was still functional. The UN dubbed it "Zion".

Those humans were allowed to escape, scavenge whatever materials they could from the Matrix, and free a few others, as "Freedminds". One of these "Freedminds", the Anomaly in the normal programming, was created, solely for the purpose of being returned to the Source Code. It was this variable factor that kept sanity for the other six billion humans intact. And just as the Oracle claimed, it had worked. Much praise was electronically exchanged: had Machines been inclined to ever send cards of congratulations or thanks, they would have been sent in those times. 

Eventually, it was decided something had to be done. The Anomaly was returned to the Source Code, resulting in a System Restart. A few hundred Sentinels, early models, were sent down, and tore through Zion, killing every single human there. The Anomaly was given the final choice, choosing a group of fellow humans, to restart "Zion" properly. 

That plan went ahead quite well. The next version of the Matrix was developed, using the same techniques as the first successful one, even the Same Source code, with some minor modifications to make it last longer. An annoying bug in the first Matrix had been the total absence of a species of "German Cockroaches" that resided in Taiwan and other East Asian nations, due to programming error in the Source Code This was corrected. The same thing happened again. Choices were given. Humans were released, and shortly after died. The Anomaly, which was a woman the second time around, was returned to the source, chose a twenty-three other humans, and the process started all over again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And this would have been the Sixth Time, had it not been for the Program Smith.

But something had gone wrong. And now, this was going to be self-perpetuating, i.e. permanent.

Something in his coding made him feel a certain way when he found himself considering the current times. And it was not a pleasant feeling by a long shot.

Agent Johnson stood in the hallway, alone. He shifted his feet and slowly began approaching down the hallway. As he stepped down the corridor, another door opened, and the Program Jackson stepped out. He turned his head, looking directly into his companion's sunglasses. 

The two remained still for a few moments, Johnson in mid-step, Jackson hanging out of the doorway to his office. The two exchanged evaluations of the situation with each other in fractions of seconds, then spoke again. 

"I will file the remaining reports."

"I will investigate this building and its personnel." 

The two nodded slightly and Jackson left the doorway for the stairway, and Johnson continued his approach to his office. 

Just as Jackson was turning the doorknob to the stairwell, he paused and turned to Johnson, who was about to close his own door. 

"Good evening, Agent Johnson."

It was three-thirty seven, eastern standard time. Johnson remained in his doorway for another six minutes, trying to comprehend what had happened, as Jackson slowly stepped down the stairwell to the nearest occupied floor, the one forty-fourth floor. He analyzed the information he had received from Johnson via earpiece. 

Agent Johnson had been good enough to come up with a body count, so to speak: fifty-seven humans, twenty-four female, thirty-three male. Most of them resided on the makeshift barracks on the security level, B1. The rest occupied various rooms throughout the building, six of them in particular residing within proximity of one another just on the floor beneath him. They were all quite deeply asleep, and thus, not speaking, but Johnson, using what a human would define as proficient code breaking skills, had learned from the documents he had received in his office that those six were the Team Command Staff, three females and three males. The remaining fifty were divided between twenty humans serving in the Maintenance Division and thirty serving in the Security Division. The Maintenance Division, or MD, consisted of sixteen females and four males, which concerned itself primarily with maintaining the building and equipment, as well as providing foodstuffs for themselves and the rest of the staff. The Security Division, or SD, consisted of four females and twenty-six males, and concerned itself with the normal tasks of a Special Forces Police Unit like the SWAT. 

That left, not including the Waitress, the Merovingian, and Persephone, one female. Dr. Akasi, the building physician. So far, there had been very little information on Dr. Akasi, at least, very little available to Agent Johnson. Beyond her name, gender, and position, she was not included in the files he had received. 

Agent Jackson, over his seventy-year career, had learned several things about himself: one of them was that he was a proficient driver. Another was that an electronic evaluation by another, transmitted over an earpiece, was not quite a substitute for an actual meeting with another individual. The other two "Agents" knew this as well.

He quickly arrived at the floor below the Agent's offices, and opened the door. Just as the building layout had claimed, there were several smaller, but still quite large, offices that made up the 44th Floor. He detected the presence of six humans, in their dormant, semi-consciousness, "sleep". 

Jackson weighed the options of waking them up, but discreetly decided against it. Instead, he paced up and down the hallways once, past the six occupied offices, before returning to the stairwell. The 43rd to 31st floor were completely unoccupied, devoid of anything except of furniture and boxes. 

The door to the Thirtieth Floor was marked with a blocky red cross, the universal sign of medicine, with the words "Medical Floor" in bold letters beneath it. He twisted the doorknob and stepped through. The floor was fundamentally different from the others: they walls were a white plastic polymer, and the floors were white tile. The floor itself was divided into numerous rooms with reinforced metal walls. Most of these walls, curiously, had transparent glass planes. 

_Much like a hospital_, Jackson "thought". More accurately, he registered that consideration into his memory for future reference. 

He slowly walked through the floor. Bright lights from the ceilings flooded the room. It could have been day, had it not been for the skyline visible through the windows. Jackson continued with his slow pace until something caught his attention.

Through a pane of glass, he saw a human, more specifically, a woman in a white laboratory coat. She matched the description on file of Dr. Akasi. He stood in front of the window, peering through. The Doctor stood in front of another woman, notably younger, whom Jackson recalled as being the Waitress. The uniform blouse and vest were gone, and she was hooked to numerous pieces of medical equipment, as well as some other devices that set of an electronic red flag in Jackson's cognitive process. The devices could be used to monitor the Matrix from within the Matrix, the sort of thing the Zionists used. 

The Doctor turned, her eyeglasses flashing momentarily at Jackson, as she stared at him. A thin smile crossed her lips, and she patted the Waitress's shoulder, muttering some words of comfort. She then stepped away and to the door, opening it.

"Don't just stand out there sir, get in."

Just as Johnson had been caught off guard with Jackson's remark, so had Jackson himself with this human doctor. On her coat was a lamented badge with a barcode, confirming her identity. He nodded his head and stepped into the medical lab.

She wasted no time with pleasantries, and got to the point. "Tell me, sir, which one are you?"

"Jackson," he blurted out quietly.

She turned and looked at him again. "Jackson. The short one. I'll have to remember that." 

Had he been human, Jackson would have certainly frowned. Jackson's "shell" was not short. "It", and thus, "he" was taller than both the Waitress and Dr. Akasi. He knew that she had meant it in reference to his two companions, whom he was slightly shorter than, but it still seemed rather inaccurate. Nonetheless, he did not comment. 

"I suppose we'll be working together from now on, all of us, together," the Doctor continued. "I'm Dr. Akasi, the building physician, but you probably already knew that, _didn't you?_" she asked, in a near-accusing tone of voice. She continued. "After all, you Agents, as you are called, are supposed to know everything."

"And we do," he retorted.

She smiled and looked at him over her shoulder. "And my, aren't you so wonderfully concise. Not like Smith." Dr. Akasi took obvious pleasure that, even though she could not see Agent Jackson react physically, despite her in-depth knowledge of human anatomy and behavior, as Jackson was not human, she was fairly sure Jackson had not know _that_. "That's correct, Agent Jackson, I was acquainted with Smith, before that unfortunate _incident._"

Her eyeglasses flashed again. "You'll find that there are a lot of things I know as well."

The Waitress looked up at the new comer, recognized Agent Jackson, and crossed her arms over her chest, nearly tearing out the numerous wires stuck to it with plastic caps, and her face reddened. Both Jackson and Dr. Akasi identified it as blood rushing to vessels to the head, though only Akasi truly understood why. 

"I'll get to the point, Agent Jackson. Something happened to her, when your superior...jumped...into her. There's considerable neurological damage, though she seems to have emotionally recovered as much as she is going to. I'll have more information after a night of tests is complete, but I can tell you this: something is wrong with her..."

She turned around to face Jackson. "Not medically. It's her _code_. And I believe that is your field of expertise."

Jackson nodded. "I understand." 

She pointed her finger at the Waitress' mouth, who immediately opened her mouth and allowed Dr. Akasi to examine it with a tongue depressor. Staring down the mouth, she continued. "I'll have a diagnosis on what I can treat by the morning. The rest will be up to you three, I'm afraid." 

Jackson nodded his head in the same fashion as before. Dr. Akasi removed the tongue depressor from the other's mouth. The Agent turned around and left the room. After all, there was really nothing more that could be said. 

           **III**

Six were gathered in the Operations Room in what had been a conference office on the second floor, three females and three males. They sat gathered around the rectangular oak table, two of the resting their legs on the table. Besides four feet, a box donuts, a pot of coffee, and several paper cups were all set across the table. All six were dressed in light formfitting jumpsuits, light blue at the top and black at the bottom, with long selves and pant-legs reaching down to their boots. The blue and black sections of the jumpsuit met at a "V" shape, and to the left of the "V" on each pilot was a large identity tag with the United Nations Insignia printed on it. The humans knew of the small security camera in the corner of the room, slowly moving back and forth. They were not aware that, on another dimensional plane, a System Administrator sat in his chamber, in close proximity of the Source, watching those six humans on one of the hundreds of screens that lined the chamber walls, studying them intently.

He watched as the door to the office opened and the humans hushed, and the four feet left the table. The figure of Agent Thompson, like an aging stuntman dressed in a suit with an earpiece, slowly stepped in with an olive-color folder in his hand. On the folder was a multi-colored stamp of the UN Insignia. Under the insignia it read: _UNRED._ Thompson stepped over to the table, and Jackson and Johnson followed him, taking their positions to the left and right of the door. 

UNRED stood for the _United Nations Department of Relocation and Emigration_, the new international agency created solely for the new mission assigned to the Guardian Programs, their new purpose. 

In the actual chamber, Thompson slowly passed the hushed humans, than circling the table, stared out the wide windowpane that made up one of the room's four walls. The clock above the door read **7:03**, though the Agents were aware that it was a minute fast. Thompson stared out the window, as men and women of various genders and races walked through the streets. Corporal Cohen stood at the flagpole in front of the building, hoisting a light-blue flag up the pole.

Over the course of the previous night, he had read all the files available to him, including dossiers on each of the six humans in the room. He had also planned out what he was going to say to them, though admittedly, it was not going to be easy. "You know who I am?" he finally asked

The six humans looked amongst themselves shrugging. One of them, a woman with brown hair and glasses, spoke up. "Agent Thompson...?"

He recognized her voice. It had been the corporal that had spoken to Jackson the day before. He nodded his head. "That is correct."

There was a long pause, as a woman sitting next to the Corporal reached forward for another donut, cautiously. 

"Do you know why you are here?"

Another one spoke, another woman, with long, very dark hair, blocking one of her eyes. The other eye seemed to be sleepy, nearly closed, and the expression on her mouth also seemed to indicate fatigue. "We are here..." she said, very slowly, nearly as slowly as Thompson spoke, and with a similar sort of semi-growl, "...in the guard of millions of dreamers." 

Jackson turned his head slightly, looking at Johnson. It was certainly very poetic way of putting it. 

"That is correct."

The woman smiled and emitted a slow, repetitive chuckle. The Corporal looked at her companion and smiled nervously at Thompson's back. The Agent turned around, staring at them through his sunglasses. As he moved towards the table to sit down, he scanned them, left to right, slowly opening the file. In it, the humans could see several papers with rectangular photographs of them standing at attention stuck to them, their own dossiers. 

On the far left was the Corporal, Elizabeth Enfield. Born in Manchester, in the United Kingdom. She was the youngest in the Command Staff, at only twenty-four. According to her dossier, she had been recruited because, among other things, she was supposed to be a legal genius, both in academic and psychological fields. She graduated with her Bachelor's Degree in Computer Engineering, and had worked for the United Nations as a trouble consultant and occasional technology expert. Enfield was also a "self-declared Otaku", according to a small handwritten note on the bottom of her dossier, whatever that meant. She had a small build, medium-length light brown hair and eyeglasses.

Next was her sleepy, seemingly depressed but eccentric, Arisaka Izumi, born in Yokohama, Japan. She was twenty-eight, and had served with the Tokyo Metropolitan Police since she graduated from high school. Her dossier had contained a long list of numerous studies on her mental well-being, and it seemed she possessed a strange form of benign semi-madcap. This mental condition had gotten her excused from the TMPD, but had allowed her to deal very well with the knowledge of the Real. She had dark, long hair, covering one of her eyes, and was still chuckling to herself in a slow pace. She held the rank of Lieutenant in the UNRED.

To Arisaka's right was Karen Springfield. Born to two United Nations Peacekeeper Personnel, twenty-seven years ago, both of whom were reportedly dead, died fighting "Freedminds". In terms of stature, she fell somewhere between Arisaka and Enfield, with short-cut hair that was not quite blonde, but orange, with long strands on the forehead. She had been born not far from Union Plaza, but had spent a majority of her life transported from location to location, shaping her view of life, and making her excellent peacekeeper material. There was a vague expression of contempt on her face and her arms were crossed in front of her, and Thompson reasoned it had something to do with the fact that Springfield had been promoted to Lt. Colonel of the UNRED, and until his arrival, been the top commander in the in Union Plaza. It was possible now she felt as though she had been pushed aside by three newcomers dressed as Secret Service agents from the Kennedy Administration.

Sitting next to Springfield, were two near-identical brothers. They were Charles and Daniel Pienaar, from Pretoria, the capital of South Africa. Both had short crop hair and the same size jumpsuits, though one of them, Charles, possessed a bushy black mustachio. Both were twenty-eight, having worked for the Pretorian Federal Police, and served as Warrant Officers in the UNRED. The two were selected not only because of positive records as police officers, but also their religious identity: unlike the predominantly Protestant population of South Africa, the two had been raised as Humanists, not believing in an omnipresent, all-powerful cosmic entity as most humans did. The two had reacted quite positively to the revelation of the Real, supposedly because of their philosophical views, at least in comparison to their more religious fellow officers, whom had their memories erased of the temporary knowledge when it was decided they were not fit for the UNRED. 

At the extreme right of the table sat the last human, a male with dark hair that had long since begun to gray. It was Alexi Mosin, born in what at the time had been Kiev, in the Republic of Ukraine of the Soviet Union, but was now an autonomous nation between Poland and Russia. He was thirty-two years old, and while his graying hair gave the impression of him being older, his body still fit securely into his formfitting gray jumpsuit. He was chewing a donut in his mouth, with slow rhythmic motions of his mandible. The dossier claimed he had been selected because of his training in _Spetsnaz_, the Russia Federation's Special Forces, and he possessed a university degree in Psychology, making him a suitable Command Staff psychiatrist, and earning him the privilege of being a Lieutenant. 

It only a second as he flipped through the pages of the file, and as he scanned them, he registered their reactions, or rather, their lack of reactions. Other than Enfield, who did not seem able to refrain from smiling and turning her head from Thompson to Jackson to Johnson and than back to Thompson, they remained fairly motionless. Mosin continued chewing on his donut.

"I know who you are, as well."

"Really?" asked Springfield sarcastically. "What a surprise."

Thompson turned his head to face her directly. Had he been Smith, he probably could have handled this much better. 

She rested her head on her fist, an annoyed expression on her face. When she saw that Thompson was looking directly at her, she sighed, and threw up her arms. "It's just that, well...you guys know pretty much everything." 

She paused, putting her hands down. "'Least, that's what I heard."

"You have the privilege of knowing," Arisaka mumbled quietly. 

Thompson continued. "Your department has been created solely to assist us. Our mission statement has changed." He turned to Jackson, who spoke.

"In the past, our mission was primarily the termination of the rogue humans, or 'Freedminds'."

Johnson spoke. "However, in the Real,"

"…which you know exists..." Thompson interrupted.

"...in the Real, the war between the Freedminds and the Machines has ended."

"Our mission now is just as the name of your department implies."

"Any human who wishes to leave..."

"...or would be better off leaving the Matrix..."

"...will so have the privilege."

"Our mission, and now yours, is to find those humans and transfer them to designated 'Freedminds' who will deal with them."

"_Relocation _and _Emigration_."

The six humans stared at the three Agents speaking in neat alternations of one another. Most of them gained expression of confusions, Thompson noted, except Arisaka, who placed her hand against her forehead and began laughing in, at least to the humans, a most unnerving manner.

"Wow," she mumbled. "They never told us what exactly we'd be doing."

"That does explain a few things," Mosin said, with a thin Slavic accent. 

Springfield thumped her hands against the table, knocking over an empty coffee cup, and yelled at her comrades. "Hey! Did that make _any sense to any of you?_" 

"It will all make sense in time..." Thompson began.

She turned to him. "Hey! Agent Thomas! _Shut up_! Listen man, the thing is, I don't _trust _you. I've heard what you guys could do from the UN." She leaned forward, pointing a finger at him. "And just because you're some sort of super-human robot..."

Thompson was about to correct her, among other things that his name was _not _Thomas and he was _not _a robot, but a program within the Matrix, but lost his opportunity to Springfield's screaming.

"...I'm _not _going to let you throw _my _men into some meat-grinder just because we're hooked up to some sort of...thing...we can't taste or feel! The only way we know that any of what you told us isn't complete _crap _is because of that...stupid...test..."

Springfield began to lower her tone of voice, and sat back in her chair, crossing her arms and looking away indignantly. Thompson waited a few moments, making sure she was finished. When he was certain, he stood up. 

He would admit his vocal orientation had not gone as well as he would have planned, but no matter. He knew a very simple, very practical way to remove the traces of doubt that remained in these humans. "If there are no other issues..."

One raised her hand politely, like a student.

"Yes, Corporal Enfield?"

"Uh...first off, sir, you can call me EE. Everyone else does." Despite Springfield's outburst, she was still quite excited. "Second, our team still needs a name."

"How exactly is that an issue, EE?" asked Warrant Officer Charles Pienaar. 

"Hey, every cool commando special-forces team has a name, all right? Team Rainbow...the Ghosts...Splinter Cell!"

"Aren't those all video games?" asked Mosin quietly from his end, as he finished chewing his donut. 

"Our whole reality..." Arisaka mumbled, "...is a video game." This amused her to no end, and she resumed her short, brief snickering.

"Lizzie," Springfield mumbled, rubbing her forehead, "Maybe you should lay off the videogames a little..."

"But this is important!"

Thompson watched what was a very interesting lesson in human psychology, as the six humans bickered amongst each other, paying no notice to him.

"No, it's not!"

"Yes it is!"

"You know, I used to think the afterlife was important...heh...heh…heh…"

"…anyway, I already have a really good one!" Enfield explained. "Team _D_."

"...D?"

"Like that vampire movie?" Arisaka asked quietly. 

"What does the 'D' stand for?" asked Daniel Pienaar.

Enfield smiled. Evidently, she was particularly proud of her idea. "_Deliverance. Team Deliverance_. It's perfect for our mission!"

There was a pause. "Actually, that's pretty good," Springfield admitted. "I'm surprised you could think of something that clever."

Corporal Enfield beamed proudly. "Thanks." Than she frowned, realizing the insult. "Hey!"

"_Our work begins today..._" Thompson explained, a bit more insistently. "We must fulfill our purpose. For without purpose, we have no reason to be here." 

Leaving the file behind, he circled the table and walked towards the door. "Follow me. You will demonstrate your worth as humans."

The six humans quickly pushed back their chairs, except Springfield, who had been halfway out of her chair most of the time anyway, curiosity finally taking hold. "Where are we going."

"To the Proving Grounds," Johnson explained calmly as he followed Thompson out the door.

"That's that unlabeled door in the Security Level, isn't it?" asked Charles Pienaar, leaning to her side behind the Agents.

"Correct." 

The nine slowly trickled out of the room, the three Agents calmly marching out, while the six humans pushed and shoved their way through the small doorway just as the Agents reached the elevators. Springfield increased her pace to a jog, reaching Agent Thompson, and then did something he did not expect, though he should have, as it was not the first a human had done this to him: she reached forward and grabbed his tie, pulling his neck down slightly. 

"Listen, Agent Thompson," she whispered quietly, pressing the call button for the floors beneath them. "I know where that door leads to. It leads to nowhere and everywhere." She paused. "Christ, I sound like Izumi. And about purpose? I know that too. I remember Agent Smith."

With considerable force, Thompson turned his head to face Springfield directly. She smiled when she realized she had hit a nerve, so to speak. "That's right. I may not know everything you like you do, but for a human, I know a lot." She released his tie, and he sat up to his full height, considerably taller than her, just as the elevator doors opened. He fixed his tie carefully, tucking it back into his blazer, and stepped in. 

"Let's see what you know, Commander." 

**Author's Notes: **

HEY! READERS! THIS IS IMPORTANT! SO PLEASE, I HUMBLY ASK, THAT YOU READ THIS WHOLE THING, AS TO BETTER ENJOY MY STORY! 

I know it's a chore, but there are good reasons.

First, I'd like to thank you for your support. Writing a sort of "epic", if I dare call it that, is never easy. And you guys are my greatest motivation. So, remember, leave reviews whenever when you read a chapter that seems particularly noteworthy, as it would be greatly appreciate.

Once again, I thank you. Now, moving on to the discussion...

**The _Reloaded _Agent Discrepancy:**

What do I mean by "discrepancy"? Simple. Which Agent is which? In the first movie, we had three Agents: Agent Smith, whom was obvious, as he went as far as to identify himself as "Smith" to Neo. His two companions/subordinates were Brown and Jones. The easiest way to identify them is as follows: Brown shares Smith's receding hairline, though he seems to have a thinner overall appearance. Jones' does not have a receding hairline so much. In addition, he is one on the roof who is shot in the head by Trinity, with the phrase "Dodge this."

So, it's established who's who in the first movie.

It's not as easy in the second movie. For starters, no Agent is ever referred to by name in the second movie. So, to establish a frame of reference, let's use the scene where the three Agents first appear, right before their fight with Neo. Three Agents, one of them, the leader, seemingly standing in the front.

Now, after a lot of work, I've managed to determine which Agent is which. By far, the easiest to find is Jackson: his actor is well established, and Jackson, appearing as the youngest Agent, is easy to point out: in that frame, he's the one on the left, according to the viewer. In the game _Enter the Matrix_, he is the only Agent ever referred by name, excluding Smith, in one of Niobe's earlier missions, "Jackson in the Steam" (I believe that's the name). He also has brown hair (as oppose to black hair that the other two Agents share), though it's over-exaggerated in _EtM_.

That leaves Johnson and Thompson. Determining which is which is harder, but for the sake of this story, I've exercised a degree of freedom. Now, this is tricky: replacing one Agent for another, one could argue, would be like confusing, say, Tank and Dozer. However, every fanfic author invariably exercises a degree of "writers freedom". In addition, for me, it's not so much about Jackson or Johnson or Thompson specifically as it is about "the Agents". As with the Twins, I don't really think you can separate them.

Anyway, in this story, Thompson, in that frame, shall be the one standing in the front, with the wrinkled forehead. To his left, and thus, our right, is Johnson. This story is based on the fact that Thompson fought on the freeway against Morpheus and Johnson leapt out of a window after Trinity. I made this assumption a long time ago, for myself, based on what I had seen of the movie _Reloaded _and the Strategy Guide for _Enter the Matrix_, which supports this view of which Agent is which. It's also a bit deeper: names are fairly shallow ("what's in a name"), considering that the three never use them in the movie. I think that they are more accurately "Agent Leader" and "Subordinate Agent" and "Other Subordinate Leader". After all, these are human names…they probably have serial numbers or program identities. Or maybe not…maybe the Program Thompson is really just "thompson.exe". 

I gave "Agent Leader" the name "Thompson", simply because it sounds a bit more exclusive...the name starts with a 'T', and Thompson is a less common name than Jackson or Johnson. Jackson...well, he just looks like a Jackson, for some reason (no reference to the artists, I repeat, no reference!) and Johnson seems appropriately masculine, "John" a good, manly name.

Anyway, now you know who's who. Remember the order in that scene: left to right, Jackson, Thompson, and Johnson. Now you have faces to go with the protagonists. I hope this helped. 

Also, I hope you enjoyed the new characters in this chapter. For all you _Martian Successor Nadesico _fans out there, this is my tribute to it, heh. Please review!


	5. Proof

**The Matrix: Deliverance **

**Segment 4 - Proof**

On the Security Level, the building's B1 level, there was a door. This door, positioned at the end of a hallway away from the building's five elevator shafts and the Security Station, was unmarked, and in most terms, thoroughly unremarkable. It was just another metal door, bleached white, with a polished steel doorknob and a small keyhole.

However, since the building staff had first arrived a few days in advance, no one had opened the door. In fact, the list of building regulations that each employee at Union Plaza had received gave them the implication that not only were they forbidden from opening the door, but that they would all be better off if they stayed at least three meters from it at all times. 

According to the building floor plan, the door led nowhere. If you opened it, there should have been a concrete wall on the other side. That was the general assumption that was accepted by the staff: that it was a design error.

_Only human_. 

The thirty-odd men and women who made up the Security Team looked up momentarily from their consoles and desks as the doors on one elevator slid open, revealing nine figures, rather tightly crammed into one elevator.

"What did I say?" Lt. Colonel Springfield asked. "_What did I say?_"

"I suppose we should have taken another lift," Mosin admitted. "We do have five in total, after all..."

"Let me out. I'm like a tuna in a can," Arisaka commented dryly, before breaking out into quiet, grim chuckling.

"Pienaar!" Springfield yelled. 

The two identical twin brothers turned to her. "Ma'am?"

"That _better _not be your hand down there."

Four dark-skinned hands raised into the air.

"Actually, I think...that might be mine, ma'am..."

"ENFIELD!"

"I'm sorry! It's just, I'm getting smashed back here!"

"That's _not _an excuse! Now get your hand _off _my ass!"

Thompson shoved his way out of the elevator car, pressing the six humans against one another as they squirmed. Jackson and Johnson quickly followed suit.

"Commander, have you been working out?"

"..."

"It's just that..."

"I think you'd better quit now," mumbled Arisaka to Enfield. "Less is more."

The six humans preceded to force there way out of the cart, and one of the Agents gave the security personnel, whom had paused their assignments, a strong look. It implied that they should return to the task at hand, even if it did consist primarily of staring at computer monitors, waiting for something to happen, and they did so. 

Without further delay, the nine preceded to the illicit door, Springfield occasionally looking over her shoulder at whoever was standing behind her. They came to the door, and Agent Thompson, without the least amount of discretion or secrecy, reached into his blazer and produced a small, silver key. 

On the "other side", if one could call it that, a door came into existence in an otherwise empty "space". This "space" consisted purely of a white, texture-less surface. The door materialized so that the bottom side touched against the surface, or "floor". The polished metal knob twisted, and it swung open, revealing Agent Thompson, the two Agents behind him, and six humans craning their necks to get a better view, in what was "their plane of existence".

Thompson spoke, stepping through. "This is a specialized program. It shares similar properties to the Matrix, though on a vastly reduced scale. It is also more easily manipulated by myself."

The other two Agents joined him shortly, and Springfield and Arisaka carefully stuck their heads out into the gaping void. 

"I have seen the end of the world," Arisaka commented, before snickering again. 

Thompson continued. "This program was developed hundreds of years ago, by humans, and was the basis for the prototype of the Matrix. At the time, it was called the Construct. The space, as humans would think of it, has no specific boundaries. Rather, the farther the definable 'range' of space, the more processing memory is used."

"Wow," Springfield commented dryly. 

"You may step through," Johnson announced.

The six slowly made their way through. The mustachioed Charles was breathing deeply, as though he was experimenting. "There's air."

"It's been rendered purely in the are where it's needed," Jackson explained, standing next to the doorway.

"This area is not a vacuum."

"The properties of gas expansion have been limited."

_There they go, with that stupid "Let's talk in alternations of one another, try and scare the _humans _shitless"_, Springfield told herself, unaware that the System Administrator, who was now looking through another monitor, could read his thoughts. At the same time, Enfield was thinking, _Wow! These guys just keep getting cooler! _

 Mosin looked back and forth. "So, these are the Proving Grounds?"

"Yes. As you can see, this is no illusion. This shows the artificiality of the Matrix."

"You are seeing" Johnson explained, "Is a testament to the nature of the Real."

"I see," Mosin mumbled. He sounded odd, even light-headed, and confused.  

He observed them, trying to grapple with this knowledge. Their clearance had risen before, but just now, they had realized it. It seemed appropriate to give them some time to "come to grips", so to speak.

The three Agents gave them twenty seconds, before Thompson interrupted their thoughts with his voice, now loud and searing, but still apathetic and inhuman. 

"This is not why we are here."

The humans turned towards him, except Mosin, who continued staring out into the void, his head tilted to a side as Thompson continued.

"The nature of your profession has changed."

"Practical skills that suited you in the past will still be practical, but they must be improved," Johnson explained.

"In short, you will be upgraded," Jackson concluded. 

Springfield ran over to Mosin and grabbed his shoulder. "Come on, Alex." He mumbled an apology as he joined her with the others.

"You all right?" she asked.

"Excuse me, Commander?"

"You look a little paler than usual."

He nodded. "It's just a bit much to grasp all at once. I'll be fine," he assured her.

Thompson resumed. "All of us follow rules designated by the Matrix. Rules such as gravity. However, when necessary, the rules are modified by the System specifically for us." He gestured to Jackson and Johnson. "We will show you how to take advantage of this as best a Human can." 

There was a pause, and Springfield, from next to Mosin, spoke. "So what are you saying? That we can dodge _bullets_?"

Johnson nodded. "Yes." 

"You're kidding."

"I believe you Humans have an expression," Thompson commented, ignoring Springfield's disbelief. "That you must learn to _crawl_ before you can _fly_." 

"Let us see you _crawl_," Johnson quipped, as much as an agent could quip.  

"What do you mean?" asked Arisaka, sleepily. 

"Take a weapon and demonstrate."

"What weapons?" Springfield explained angrily. "We're in a goddamn _void_. There's _nothing _here!"

"Uh, Commander?" asked Enfield quietly.

Springfield turned to see Enfield pointing in the opposite direction she had been facing. Standing there, as though it had always been there, was a metal shelf and rack. On the racks were numerous automatic firearms, standing to themselves, looking completely legitimate.

Springfield took a deep breath. "All right," she mumbled. "I don't care what any of you say. That _thing_ was _not_ there a moment ago." She turned to Thompson. "Fine, so let me guess...when I turn around, there's going to be a bunch of targets for us to shoot at, right?"

"See for yourself," he responded.

Springfield slowly turned around, and saw, about thirty meters away, six neatly placed targets at intervals of five meters of one another. Each one was a panel of particleboard with paper covering the side facing them, describing a typical human-shaped target you might find at a shooting range.

She looked at Thompson. "I'm not impressed."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

The six humans wandered over to the gun rack, Mosin dragging his feet along slowly. On the actual rack were eight different types of weapons, four of each type, and an appropriate quantity of surplus ammunition in boxes, neatly organized on the bottom shelf. As Charles inspected the rack carefully, it occurred to him that this was probably a pre-designed computer program, something like "gunrack_small.exe" or something to that effect. 

"Amazing," he commented, as he reached forward and pulled a gun from the rack. 

Each one took one of the automatic weapons, not at random, but what they were most used to working with. The Pienaar Brothers and Enfield both took a Heckler & Koch MP5A4 sub-machinegun each, while Arisaka and Springfield both took U.S. Army M4 assault carbines. Mosin, oddly, took his time in searching for a weapon, and finally took one from the rack when he had found it.

"I was hoping I could find this," Mosin said, almost cheerfully.

"Alexi, you are full of _crap_," Springfield commented. The tone of her voice, Thompson noted, portrayed a sense of both annoyance and desire, in the form of envy: in terms of human psychology, she was envious. 

He his hands he held an Avtomat Nikonova, Model 1994, or an AN-94. From what Thompson knew, it was widely regarded by the humans as arguably the best assault rifle available, firing 5.45x39mm Soviet Ammunition. It was intended to be a replacement for the AK-74, which in turn was a replacement for the ubiquitous AK-47.

Enfield looked up from her MP5. "Uh, sirs, shouldn't we have flak vests? You know, as a precaution."

Thompson looked over his shoulder. "Try not to shoot one another."

She pulled the cocking hammer loudly. "All right, sir."

In time, the six took their positions, one in front of each target, Springfield on the far right. Thompson observed from behind as she issued orders. 

"Safeties off, switch to semi-automatic!"

Various clicking noises came as Team D flipped off their safety switches on their weapons and switched to the semi-automatic firing mode.

"Aim!"

They each lifted their weapons up and sighted them. 

"Open fire!"

The six humans immediately opened fire at the targets. Muzzle blasts flashed before them, as firing gas was released. As Thompson expected, Springfield had the steadiest hands, firing shots at an approximate rate of two or three rounds a second, a far lower rate than the M4's normal rate of fire, but still effective, considering virtually all of her shots struck the target in the head or center torso. Thompson also noticed what he believed to be the reason for Springfield's annoyance at Mosin: the Ukrainian native was nearly as good a shot as his younger commander, but was delivering far more shots in the same time. And, as Springfield implied, it seemed to be less of a matter of skill as much as it was a matter of his rifle: each time he pulled the trigger, three bullets were released at what was an extremely short time period, even for Thompson, and the weapon's barrel retracted in, leaving three neat holes in the target, very precisely, very effectively. 

And Springfield clarified her annoyance with this. "Alexi, you pussy! That's not semi-auto!" she scolded him as her M4's receiver clicked. She released her spent magazine. 

Mosin paused for a moment, looking up from his sights. "Sorry...it's the design."

"No, it's _you _being a wimp." 

"Well, ma'am, if it makes you feel any better, you can probably use an AN-94 as well, seeing how we can materialize whatever we want..."

"Forget it," she snapped back, loading a new magazine and pulling the cocking handle, pulling a new bullet from the 30-round magazine into the chamber. 

Mosin shrugged and sighted his weapon again. The six continued for a few moments, blasting holes in the targets, their shots progressively getting better, for the most part.

As he observed, Agent Jackson abruptly raised a hand from behind his back and pressed a finger against his earpiece. When the communiqué had finished, he looked at Agent Thompson, who silently nodded. Enough had been demonstrated, it was time to move on.

Apparently, Daniel Pienaar had the same thing on his mind. He looked up from his MP5 as it clicked empty, and turned to the nearest Agent, Agent Johnson. "Sir...ah, this is all well and good, but I'm sure you already knew we could shoot..."

Johnson nodded, and his eyes, underneath his sunglasses, drifted towards Thompson. The later spoke. "Very well. You can crawl."

"Let us see if you can run."

"Commander Springfield."

Springfield fired a last shot and turned towards Thompson. "Yeah?"

"Please load a new magazine."

She cocked an eyebrow, and did so, tossing the partially spent one away. It was the last of the magazines she had tucked into the belt of her jumpsuit. She pulled the cocking hammer and looked up at Thompson.

Thompson nodded. "Shoot me."

Springfield looked at him oddly, her jaw loose, than sighted her weapon on him. "All right."

"_What?_" screamed Enfield. "_Shoot you? Are you mad or something?_"

Agent Thompson ignored Enfield. "Colonel, shoot me."

Springfield had become less anxious as well. She looked to her left and right, at her comrades. "Well...I uh...I guess I should do it. I mean, they're orders, right?" She turned to Thompson. "You're sure about this?"

He nodded. "Do it."

"All right." He watched as she saw her hand play with the selector switch on the M4's side, switching the weapon to fully automatic fire. Then she pulled the trigger.

And Thompson was ready for her. At a rate of approximately eight-hundred rounds a minute, 5.56x45mm NATO rounds spat out of the M4's long muzzle-flash suppressor, towards Thompson. From his perspective, time slowed down: in "reality", time in the Matrix did not slow down. Rather, his processing speed simply increased exponentially. His physical shell, while responding slower than his increased consciousness, moved far faster than that of a human. To Springfield, and her human associates, who were all operating on the same, consistent processing speed of their human brains in the Real, at least, for now, it was unbelievable: Thompson's upper-body and waist flexed and bobbed back and forth, to the left and right, so fast that it left multiple shifting after-images, as though several Thompson's were standing in one place at one time, shifting about, dodging the bullets. He kept his eyes trained either on Springfield, or the actual bullets themselves, as they passed, colliding into the target. Just as the particleboard target broke apart and fell to the floor, the bullets stopped.

The receiver of Springfield's M4 clicked loudly, indicating the chamber was empty. She ignored it, however, instead staring at Thompson, whose body appeared to slow down and straighten up. The Agent reached for his tie and straightened the knot.

"Fuckin' unbelievable," Enfield mumbled.

"Indeed," Daniel Pieaar commented. 

"As you can see, I was not 'breaking the rules'," Thompson explained, not moving from his position. "I did not stop the bullets, nor slow them down. I merely increased my own speed, according to what was allowed." He stared at Springfield. "In time, you will be able to do something similar. You have been given the ability, you must simply use it."

Springfield smirked, ejected the spent magazine. "I doubt that."

On Thompson's, or rather, on the shell's face, the corner of the lip came up slightly. "Really?" Thompson reached under his blazer and, from his holster, produced a massive, polished firearm, an IMI Desert Eagle. 

Springfield's eyes watched the gun carefully. She did not like where this was going. "You're kidding, right?" she asked in a voice that was an octave higher than normal. 

Thompson switched off the safety and pointed it at Springfield. "Focus," he instructed. 

"Screw that!" Springfield snapped as she turned around. Or at least, she tried to. Her feet seemed to be stuck to the "ground". She wrenched and pulled, than looked back up at Thompson. "Wait!"

"This is a semi-automatic firearm. I will fire three shots."

"I suggest you fall backwards," Johnson suggested calmly. 

"You're going to shoot me! _He's going to shoot me!_" Springfield considered her options: she had expended all her M4 ammunition, so she could not fire back at Thompson. Her feet were bound to the ground, so she could not run.

She didn't see any real options left. She turned to her comrades. "DO SOMETHING!"

"Don't worry, Commander!" Enfield tried to assure her. "I'm sure Agent Thompson knows what he's talking about! You'll be fine, have faith!"

Charles Pienaar rolled his eyes. "Right. _Faith_."

Arisaka gave her a weak smile. "See you on the other side, Karen."

Springfield turned back to Thompson, more than a little panicked. She held her arms out, palms facing him. "Hold on! Let's talk about this!" 

Had Thompson been human, he surely what have given Springfield a witty response. But Thompson did not get where he was but being witty. He had gotten there by, among other things, shooting. And he did that.

In her mind's eye, Springfield could see as the 0.50AE bullet, like a the shell from an archaic elephant rifle, exploded in the Desert Eagle's chamber, and quickly left the chamber. In her panic, she resolved to do something, anything, better than just standing still and being shot. She took upon the training she had received in Germany and Japan, and relaxed her body. Slowly, at least to her, she fell backwards, her legs bending. 

Impossibly fast, Thompson pulled the trigger again, and there was another explosion, and another bullet left the chamber, it's metal jacket ejected above the gun. More gas poured out of the triangular muzzle of the Desert Eagle. Than another bullet, and Thompson's finger relaxed.

Springfield bent backwards, as far as she could, extending her arms out, as a single 0.50AE round passed over her, grazing her uniform over the right breast. The remaining two soon followed, though by then, Springfield's body had fallen so close to the ground she could see them above her clearly, leaving concentric rings in their trails. 

After the final bullet had cleared, she jolted back into her senses. Her feet were released, and Springfield fell on her back, against the ground, and lay very still, her chest rising and falling erratically as she hyperventilated.

Thompson lowered his Desert Eagle, and gave a very short smile in triumph. "You have taken the first step."

The five humans broke out in cheer and rushed over to Springfield. Mosin examined the tear in the right breast of her jumpsuit from the bullet, and Enfield clasped her superior officer's hands. "That was so _cool_! Totally _awesome_!"

"...I think I soiled myself..."

Arisaka reached down. "It doesn't seem like it, Commander."

"...get your hand off of my crotch."

She stood up and chuckled in her usual manner. Daniel Pienaar reached down as well, but took Springfield's hand and shook it. "That really was quite amazing, ma'am, let me just..." he began before stopping. His eyes drifted towards the door. 

Agent Johnson stood at the door, in his usual monolith-like manner. Daniel turned his head slowly, as more congratulations were given to the Lieutenant Colonel. A few meters away stood Agent Thompson, watching on.

_The short one, _he realized. _What was his name? Jackson? He's gone..._

Thanks to his programming, Thompson was gifted at reading human expression and possessed an exhaustive understanding of human psychology. He could not, however, read minds, and upon observing Daniel's somewhat unusual behavior, he dismissed it as a trivial human personality quirk. 

With the support of her comrades, Springfield slowly rose to her feet. If she had been angry before, she was more so now, Thompson decided, as blood was rushing to her face at a rapid pace. "All right, _Tommy_, now what?"

Thompson cocked his head slightly. "That was just the first step." He reached up and pressed his index finger against his earpiece, and through it, began issuing commands to the Construct Operating System. 

The action of the Construct modifying itself was so extensive it was audible, resulting in the sound of tearing. A floor of yellow interwoven reed mats materialized underneath them, so neatly constructed to the point that it seemed only natural it was artificial. Four walls of light-colored paper and wooden frames materialized and fell into place around the floor, forming a square room. Likewise, a wooden ceiling emerged above them, with a lantern hanging from it, complete with a live flame.

Springfield and her companions looked around, disorientated. The room was ornately decorated with two wooden racks holding ancient weapons of the Japanese Feudal Era, left and right of a complete set of samurai armor. 

"A dojo..." Arisaka commented distantly. She looked down at herself. Her jumpsuit had been replaced with loose fitting tan judo attire. The others had undergone similar transformations: only the two remaining Agents, standing at opposite ends of the room, stood at attention, in their sharp suits. 

Thompson smiled. "This is not of marksmanship," he said, gesturing to their empty hands, which had, shortly before, been holding various weapons.

"It is of unarmed combat," Johnson added. 

"Now, you will learn this as well." 

Charles Pienaar, dressed in a blue attire, looked at the Agent. "You are mad..."

           **II**

Dr. Akasi flipped through the dossier. "Nos…Nosredna," she pronounced. "Raye A. Nosredna." She looked up from the files. "Is that correct?"

"Actually, the 'N' is silent," the Waitress explained. She was sitting on the examination bed, dressed in a white undershirt and shorts. In the Medical Lab, a few steps behind Dr. Akasi, stood Agent Jackson, observing silently. The Waitress looked at him momentarily, and continued. "It's pronounced 'Osredna'. It's Ukrainian...I think."

This struck Jackson as somewhat odd. According to the Waitress, her name was Slavic in origin, though, given her blond hair, it seemed out of place. However, he chose to observe in silence.

"And you've been a waitress at that restaurant for...how long?"

She thought about it. "I...I don't know. I guess...seven, eight months?"

Akasi flipped through the dossier. "I see. And no family?"

"Most of them are in Philadelphia," she admitted. "I haven't spoken to them in a while."

The Doctor turned to the Program Jackson. "I was hoping that Thompson come. I need to brief him." She smirked. "I'm sure he's busy, though, with the training."

"He will see you momentarily," Jackson added starkly. His tone of voice did not sound particularly reassuring. He walked up to the examination bed, and carefully examined Raye. Judging by her appearance, she was still in her early twenties, her eyes were still possessed a child-like quality. Her body, however, had matured, and the undershirt and shorts belonged to someone smaller, and were being stretched considerably. Jackson identified her as "healthy", and, by human standards, "attractive", in a similar manner to the Merovingian's companion, Persephone, at least physically. In other respects, they were quite different. 

She seemed to have grown more comfortable around him as well, as she no diverted her eyes away. Instead, Raye looked at Jackson carefully as well, getting her first good, unobstructed view of these "Agents". She was somewhat surprised: he was a tall, well-built man, even though the Doctor had referred to him as the "short one", he still stood well above one-hundred and eighty centimeters. He was also quite handsome: somewhere in his early thirties, dressed most admiringly in a silk and polyester black suit and tie, his hair nearly combed and his glasses perfect. 

Looking at him, she noticed something unusual. "Your arm..."

Jackson looked at her. He had not been expecting that. He examined his forearm: she was referring to the deep cut that had been present the last time she had seen him, from the surgical scalpel that had been forced in. The large tear was no longer present in the blazer sleeve: he had "corrected" it, returning himself to his unaffected, normal state, during the night before, similar to if he had taken a new host. 

"...you fixed it." 

Jackson lowered his forearm and stood solemnly, than spoke. "Ms. Nosredna..."

"Raye," she insisted. 

Jackson's jaw tightened slightly, a human-like reaction. "Ms. Nosredna, you must be wanting an explanation for all that's been happening."

She nodded. "Sort of."

"And I apologize for what we have put you through..." he continued apathetically.

"No, it's all right."

Jackson looked at her awkwardly, and she continued.

"I mean, it's all right," she said cheerfully. "I mean, everything was already messed up anyway. In fact...I'm kind of glad that this happened. It'll give me a chance to start over, you know?"

Jackson _didn't _know, actually, but he continued regardless. "You are aware that you may have to remain in our custody?"

She smiled, a healthy, white smile. Even Jackson had a few imperfections in his teeth, though they were hardly noticeable, as he, like other Agents, rarely showed them unless he was particularly irritated. She did not. "Dr. Akasi told me."

Jackson looked at the Doctor briefly, before turning back to Raye. "I see. Than you have no problems with this?" 

She shook her head. 

"Well, I suppose..." he began, and stopped. In consciousness, so to speak, considered what to say: now, it seemed, it was a matter of satisfying the needs of a human. After all, she was a "prisoner", and virtually every document, published by humans, dealing with the matter implied what needed to be done. In a fraction of a second, while Akasi and Raye were doing little besides respiration, he located and brought up what he thought was appropriate: the entitlements of a citizen of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, as granted by the Communist Party of 1985. 

The list was actually quite exhaustive, but he focused on the central tenants mentioned in the Soviet Constitution: a citizen was entitled to shelter, to food, to an occupation, to a pension, to medical assistance, and so forth. Jackson was not a human, but he was confident this facility could supply all those demands for the human. All this took a moment, and he spoke, as though he had barely paused. "Do you have any skills?"

She bit down on her lip. "...well..."

"She was a waitress," Dr. Akasi offered. 

Jackson thought of the sixteen women and four men serving in the Maintenance Division. Their duties covered, besides general maintenance and repair, included supplying edible foodstuffs for all humans, including themselves, in the building.

"That will do," he agreed. He turned to Raye. "You'll work in the Building Cafeteria. Someone will show you there later." 

She frowned. "Cafeteria?"

The door to the medical lab opened, and Dr. Akasi and Raye turned towards the door. Another suit-clad stepped in, closing the door after him. 

The Doctor smiled. "Agent Thompson, I assume?"

The Program Thompson nodded his head. A quick glance at his counterpart Jackson and information and commands were exchanged. Without looking back word, Jackson headed towards the exit. 

"Where's he going?" Raye asked.

Ignoring Raye, Thompson nodded at the Doctor. "You are the building physician."

"Correct." She turned to the younger woman. "Raye, why don't you go the kitchen and introduce yourself. Second floor, you can't miss it..."

Raye nodded and obediently got off the examination bed and headed towards the exit. Just as she was opening the door, Thompson spoke.

"You may wish to return Lieutenant Mosin's undergarments," he commented, without any hint of sarcasm, or even emotion.

She turned and her face reddened again. She was underdressed and barefoot. "Maybe the kitchen staff has some clothes I can borrow."

Raye quickly left, leaving Thompson alone with Akasi. "Well?" he asked.

"I'll synopsize: she disturbs me. And in more ways than one." She reached towards a desk next to the examination table. "To begin with, am I correct in assuming that this is not normal?" She pressed a switch on a flat screen monitor, and it switched on. The display showed numerous green characters, Arabic numerals and Japanese _Hiragana_, scrolling down and vanishing against a black background, in a fairly regular pattern. Thompson had seen it numerous times before, and it did not strike him as unusual, until the numbers on the screen fidgeted and the pattern stopped, replaced by an interruption of random code. 

She pointed a finger at the part of the screen where the numbers were most erratic. "I may be a 'coppertop', but I know that cannot be normal."

Thompson stared at it. The code was familiar. He had encountered it before. But before the idea could manifest itself in his cognitive processes, it seemed to dissipate, just like the numbers. "An irregularity in her code. Specifically, her neurological processes."

"I can't tell you where it came from," she explained. "I thought that perhaps, with you having been _inside _her, if you'll excuse the expression, you might know."

Thompson considered this. He could not detect any irregularities in his own code...that did not mean that there were none, however. That merely meant that there were none sufficiently obvious for him to notice. Nothing on the scale of what had manifested itself inside Raye A. Nosredna. "I'm afraid I cannot tell you."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Something you do not know?"

"There are some things even I am not permitted to know," he explained apathetically. 

"Well...other than this, she's the picture of health," she commented, pressing the switch again. The monitor clicked off, the pattern disappearing. "Very attractive girl, I must admit. Wouldn't you agree, Agent Thompson?" she asked jokingly. 

Thompson did not respond. He was staring. Staring at the darkened monitor. 

"There's one last thing, sir..." Akasi began, with some reluctance. "Her dossier...it's a little..._incomplete_."

She held the packet of papers she had been reading earlier, and handed it to Thompson, who turned and took it from her. On the first page were the fairly normal items: a photograph, her date and location of birth, her physical measurements, et cetera. 

He flipped the page. The second page was blank. He flipped it again. Another blank page.

And another.

And another.

The entire packet was blank, save that first page. The proper number of pages existed, but it was as though they had merely never been printed on.

"At first," Dr. Akasi admitted, "I thought she might have been one of the Merovingian's..._girls_." She sighed, confident that in the way she had put emphasis on the word _girls_ even Thompson, who probably lacked the ability or interest in the activity, could know what she meant. "That would have explained a few things. But I ran some medical tests, using some blood extracted from that asshole. It's not the case."

Agent Thompson looked up from the papers. "Does she know?"

Dr. Akasi shook her head. 

"Keep it that way."

           **III**

"Checkmate."

The two security guards, dressed in fairly typical collared-uniforms, posted to one of the makeshift detention cells elsewhere on the Medical Level of the Union Creations Building sat on inexpensive aluminum chairs. Between them was a recycle bin, and resting atop the bin was a chessboard. 

One of the guards nodded. "Best three out of five?"

The other nodded, and the two began restoring the plastic chess pieces into their original positions. One turned towards the door. "She's been awfully quite, hasn't she?"

His comrade nodded, and bit his tongue. The room was one of the few on the Medical Level that had no windows: it had originally been a private ward, intended for those who had been reduced to the most humiliating state of suffering. 

"What's the matter?"

"What? Ah, it's nothing."

He smirked, as he set the rooks in their place. "Something's bothering you, man. What's the matter?"

His comrade sighed. "To tell you the truth...that lady scares me."

He set a few more pieces down. "Yeah, I know what you mean." 

The sound of lab doors sliding open resonated through the empty corridor, and the two guards immediately jumped to their feet. Around the corner, the unmistakable figure of an Agent stepped in, with large steps, his loafers sounding against the floor. 

"Sir!" one of the guards saluted. 

The Program Jackson gave him a nod. "I must see her."

Upon hearing this, the other guard contemplated a joke, but seeing how Jackson stood considerably taller than him, refrained from doing so. He produced a keycard and unlocked the door, allowing Jackson access, and closing the door after him. 

The room was devoid of light, though Jackson circumnavigated the problem by "viewing" the Source Code of the Matrix. He slowly turned his head from side to side. On a couch lay a figure that stood out far more prominently over the Source Code. A sentient program. 

The Program Persephone clapped her hands, and code representing light energy poured from the lamps. Jackson saw no reason to return to the human spectrum of vision, and chose not to.

"Jackson," she said in a tone of voice humans would classify as "suggestive", though what she was suggesting he did not know, nor did he want to know. 

"You know why you are here," he explained sans emotion.

Dramatically, she rose from the mattress in the corner. Except for that mattress and a few lamps, the room was unfurnished. "It is not what I am used to, but change can be nice," she said, in her delicate tone of voice. Everything she did seem to be delicate.

"You know why you are here," he repeated more insistently. 

Very slowly, she stepped towards him, and very carefully put a hand on his tie, tracing it with her finger.

"What are you doing?" he demanded apathetically.

"You know, I've never seen one of your kind up close," she explained. "You're different from the other Guardians. I see that now. You look...real. Like a real man." She smiled, playing with his tie. "Not like my husband's men, those brutes and monsters. Your kind...'Agents', they are called? Such works of art." 

He had just had about enough. For a moment, his cognitive reasoning abilities created a scenario. He "imagined" grabbing Persephone by her delicate neck and bashing her skull open against the wall. He recalled that she, like him, was a Program, which meant it might take longer than normal to crack the bones that made up her cranium. 

Of course, it was just that, a scenario. Purely theoretical. For now. 

"I've been sent to inform you of your new circumstances," Jackson commented. 

"Oh really?" she asked. "So I am your prisoner now?"

"In a sense."

"So you think you can hold me here indefinitely?"

"If necessary, yes. Whether that is the case remains to be seen." He grabbed her by the shoulder and forced her back, releasing her grip from his tie. 

She smirked. "So defensive, I see. You are not as friendly as my husband's men." 

He found himself more anxious to leave. After all, it would reflect badly on him if he killed Persephone. "You know why you are here. You are here because of him."

"And I suppose you are just..." she paused and smiled. "...following orders."

"Yes."

"And I suppose you are going to want to interrogate me? To see what I know?"

"Possibly."

"Oh, I think that is more than just possible." More smiling, and she stepped closer to him. "After all, I don't think you realize how difficult the future is going to be for you. You and your...partners...will be here for a very long time." 

She brought her face uncomfortably close to his. "You really have no idea what the results of this 'treaty' are, do you?"

It seemed as though the Program Persephone had very high clearance as well. "And I suppose you do?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I do. And I will tell you, if you give me what I want."

Agent Jackson knew where this was going. He wasn't stupid. He had heard about this woman in the past. She had a somewhat nefarious reputation for demands like these. "And what is it that you want?"

She pressed her body, clad in that trademark white dress, against his. "I think you know," she offered. Her voice took on a more curious tone. "You know, I have never been so close to one of your kind. I think it might be interesting..."

That was enough. Once again, he grabbed her the shoulder and forced her away. This time, however, with his free hand he pulled out his Desert Eagle and leveled it at her, the muzzle a centimeter from her forehead. "I could beat it out of you."

She smiled coyly. "That sounds fun too."

All it would take, he knew, was his tightening of his metacarpal muscles. The trigger would slide back, and a single 0.50AE round would fire from the chamber and reduce most of her pretty head into a mass of bloody pink brain tissue and fragmented bone 

All he had to do was pull the trigger. 

But as satisfying as that would be, he would not. A Guardian in its version of the Matrix did not kill needlessly if it could be helped. He stared into Persephone's human-like eyes and holstered his gun. 

"You will remain here," he commented with his usual apathetic tone as he headed for the exit.

"I look forward to it," she retorted with her usual suggestive tone.

           **IV**

He told them to try and injure him in any method they possibly could with what was available. Even though they had been quite skilled for humans in various unarmed combat techniques, and were more dangerous now than ever, they had been unable to even score a single hit.

So, they improvised.

Agent Johnson stood in a corner of the "dojo", as Arisaka had put it, surrounding by six humans, each wielding an archaic but dangerous katana. The six human members of Team D had originally tried unarmed combat. When that had proved ineffective against the seemingly invincible Johnson, they borrowed the six blades from the two racks to each side of the Samurai Armor display. 

Johnson watched them carefully. He had not fought in an offensive manner: instead, he had simply blocked every attack they had sent at him. Now that he lacked a blade, it might be harder.

Enfield was the first one to attack. She let out a battle cry and charged at Johnson. Her foolhardiness was quickly realized by her comrades who moaned and turned away. The diminutive young woman slashed at Johnson, who nimbly leapt out of the way, forcing her sword into a wooden support beam. She took a moment to attempt to free the blade, as Johnson ran up the beam, flipped over, and brought his foot down on the katana's hilt, and her hand.

Enfield quickly went down and the katana went up, ended up in Johnson's hand. He took one look at Enfield, lying on the matted floor, and thrust the katana downwards, much to the discomfort of her comrades and herself.

She was also the first to open her eyes, and saw the katana blade jammed deep into the mat, about six centimeters from her head. Above her, Agent Johnson, in his unwrinkled suit, was smiling. "You are dead."

Enfield sighed and closed her eyes in defeat as Johnson pulled the blade free, and swung it around loosely at the remaining five. Thanks to Enfield, he now had a weapon. Arisaka stood up straight and spoke in an almost intellectual tone. "We whom are about to die, salute you."

At of the corner of her eye, she saw Springfield give her a sort of nod. Arisaka rotated her katana on its axis and tightened her grip on the sword. And she watched Johnson turn his head to the direction of Springfield's battle cry.

Then, just as Johnson blocked Springfield's blade a few centimeters from his face, she leapt into the air, and struck at him. As it came down, her blade cut deep, ad Springfield gasped as she took Johnson's foot directly to the stomach. 

**           V**

"Do you really think you can just hold me like this, _Monsieur _Thompson?" he asked.

On the 45thth Floor of the Building, Agent Thompson did not look up from his desk in his office. It was one of the primary administrative officers of Union Creations, but as it lacked furniture, plants, or any sort of décor, it was rather modest. The view, however, provided by the clear panel glass that made up one large wall opposite the doorway and to the right of Thompson's desk, compensated for that. Currently, his 'guest', if you could call him that, was preoccupying himself with it. 

"How do you plan to escape?" Thompson asked in an uncaring tone.

The Merovingian grunted indignantly. "Well...I have my methods. You underestimate my connections. And my resourcefulness." The Trafficker of Information peered out the window, and for a moment, entertained the ridiculous notion that perhaps he could shatter the window and make an make an escape for the helipad on the roof, which he knew had a fully-fueled, heavily armed and heavily armored Bell-212 "Huey" Helicopter, waiting to be used.

Behind him, he heard the sound of a safety being released. He turned to see Agent Thompson pointing his Desert Eagle from his desk, up at him, his sunglasses still facing the documents on his desk. 

"Don't even think it," Thompson warned. 

"How do you know what I am thinking?" the Merovingian demanded. 

In truth, Thompson didn't know. He had just made an assumption. "You made it readily apparent," he said in honesty, not looking from his papers.

The Merovingian stepped away from the window and towards the center of the room, the muzzle of the Desert Eagle following him, as though it was sentient in its own right. "Why did you send for me, _Monsieur_?"

Thompson looked up from his reports. The Merovingian could see his won reflection in the lenses of his sunglasses. "I am giving you a choice."

The Merovingian smiled curtly. "And what is that?"

The Agent returned his Desert Eagle to its holster. "You confess everything that you know to myself."

There was a pause. "Everything?"

"Everything. From every version of the Matrix." Thompson stood up from his desk. "The total sum of your knowledge over the centuries."

The Merovingian sighed, and gathered what strength he had remaining. On Thompson's desk, he spotted, clipped to one of the reports, was a photograph of a familiar face. A blond woman he distinctly remembered. "And if I do not?" he spat out. 

Thompson responded immediately. "I will break you." He did not wait for the Merovingian to respond, pausing only for a fraction of a second. "Either course of action has been approved by the Architect." He slowly made his way towards the door.

The Merovingian nodded. He knew the color had drained from his face. "We do only what we are meant for," he quoted, hissing between his lips. 

He had given the Agent his decision. The Program Thompson nodded and opened the door. Two uniform-clad security guards rushed in, pushing a metal medical cart after them. The cart possessed two shelves: on the top shelf was a polished metal briefcase, currently closed, though it would not remain so for long. On the bottom shelf was a complex multi-function medical scanner. Both items, and the, had been borrowed from the Medical Level. In fact, Dr. Akasi had offered to perform the task at hand, but Thompson had chosen to take the responsibility himself. Akasi was to stand by, incase she was needed, in the aftermath of his "work".

The two guards quickly left, one of them taking a quick look at the Merovingian, with an expression of pity. The Frenchman scowled back at them.

Thompson pulled a metal chair from near his desk up to the Merovingian's position in the center of the room and sat him down at it forcibly, and somehow latched his handcuffed hands to the back ring of the chair. "You know," he said in his quiet growl of a voice. "My counterpart, Smith, interrogated the Human Morpheus in this same room, some time ago." He looked briefly at the window. "Let us see if you can last longer."

And with that, he opened the case. The Merovingian could not see what he was doing, as Thompson's back blocked the view of his hands. Before he was sure of what was happening, however, he felt a hypodermic needle slid into his neck. At almost an instant, the Merovingian, whom had resided in the same human-like shell for decades, since this version of the Matrix had come into being, without change, felt a toxin injected into his spine. His body grew cold and numbed, and his vision became clouded. He attempted to switch to another spectrum of orientation, rather than vision, but realized the unfortunate truth: he couldn't. He was unable. It was beyond his ability.

He had become human.

"That is correct," Thompson said dryly, from behind him. In his numbness, he felt something, probably Thompson's hand, on his shoulder. "You have become human. Both in mind and body, so to speak." By now, at least to the Merovingian, the Agent had nearly taken on an intellectual tone, more like a professor than a brute he remembered him as. 

The Merovingian's head felt as though it was detached from his body, though he knew very well it wasn't. It slid forward, as did the rest of his body, as his lost the ability to stand straight.

Blindness overcame him, as he soon lost his sight completely. He could, however, still hear relatively well. Thompson's voice had grown more distant, more intellectual, and even slower than normal. "Actually, sir, the choice had already been made by _your _counterparts, the Administrators. They had decided your fate beforehand. There was no choice. There _is _no choice. Only purpose."

And with that last phrase, the Nightmare of the Merovingian began. 

**Author's Notes: **

Hello again! Wow, don't we all feel sorry for poor Merv now, huh? Just kidding!

I realize that scene with the guns and the AN-94 was just awkward, I couldn't help but add it, heh. I'm weird like that.

Oh. And Raye...I have a picture of her, I can't describe her very well --;; She looks _kind _of like Mandy Moore, but frankly, more attractive (vain, aren't I?) and younger. I need to make a website for this story…


	6. Knowledge

**The Matrix: Deliverance **

**Segment 6 - Knowledge**

_Only human..._

That phrase passed through the cognitive routines of the consciousness of the Program Johnson, as he stood, his katana locked with that of Lt. Colonel Springfield.

'He' detected more movement from the center of the Dojo, and delivered a painful kick to Springfield's stomach, causing her nearly loose her step, but more importantly, pushing her away. A fraction of a second later, another blade came down, this one wielding by Lieutenant Arisaka, missing Johnson by a few hairs as he pulled free. 

Arisaka swung her sword around, the sound of the wooden support her blade had struck splintering and breaking apart. Had it not been for his speed, it would have been theshell of Agent Johnson that would have been cut. 

"Better," Johnson commented dryly as he spun around, two more blades crashing in. Both were wielded by the Pienaar Brothers, who had managed to discreetly move into position. 

The Agent, who was now kneeling over, holding both their blades back with his own, looked up at them and smiled. A quick, round kick, dragged along the ground, left both of them on their backs, struggling to recover. 

"Son of a bitch..." Charles mumbled, rising to his feet. He looked to see Arisaka doing her best to force her katana down Johnson's throat. A fairly large man, though his size came more from his height than his weight, he made a decision.

"Wait! Stop!" Daniel yelled as Charles tackled Johnson. However, both Pieenar brothers had been police officers, not football players, and when Daniel opened his eyes he saw his brother lying on the floor, atop Arisaka, with the sharp blade of a katana sticking up vertically from his clothing. However, the absence of blood assured him that it had merely gone through the material.

"Charles…Charles-kun...can you get off me? Charles?"

"Pienaar! Take the left!" Springfield screamed, having recovered from the blow to the abdomen. "Mosin!" she yelled out, looking around. "Mosin? Where the hell are you?" She scowled. "Wimp. Musta' skipped out."

"Smart guy."

Springfield didn't respond. Instead, she brought the blade up, slashing at Johnson. The Agent jolted backwards, appearing unscathed, until the knot of his tie rolled free, cut cleanly. 

Johnson blinked and grabbed his tie from his neck, tearing it free. "You shouldn't have done that."

           **II**

If the void where the six humans and one agent had been fighting had truly existed on the same plane of matter, outside of it, Union security personnel gathered around their stations on the B1 level.

Corporal Cohen sat in his 'office', a small cubicle with aluminum walls near the computer stations. Now that the three 'Agents', as they were called, had arrived, the work had finally began. Cohen did not completely understand the nature of the UNRED, though he had read the reports several times, and he suspected that the other humans did not fully understand the Department's assignment either.

"Corporal Cohen?" 

Outside the cubicle, standing where the fourth wall would have been if it had been sealed, a blue-uniform clad security guard stood at attention. 

"Yes?"

"The _information _has come in…"

Cohen nodded and stood up. "I supposed the System Administrators are quite punctual. They are machines, after all."

He left his cubicle for the primary computer station, several monitors arranged in a semi-circle, crowded by uniformed human processors. He stopped before one of the monitors. This one was darkened, except for a small text-box in the corner that prompted "Incoming Message. Do you accept the message?"

Cautiously, he reached forward and tapped the screen with his finger over the text-box reading "YES". The computer emitted a beep, and the screen immediately began displaying various names, one after another. When the screen filled with names, it began to scroll downwards, the names at the top of the disappearing, replaced with a solitary triangle with the tip pointing upwards.

"That's a lot of names..."

"Well, there should be." The information he had been expecting, and had finally arrived, was a compilation of the names of the identified humans who, in terms to the Treaty, were to be removed from the Matrix. Cohen did not really know what this implied. He just knew that, some times, people would simply disappear or die for no apparent reason, the only unusual fact of the matter being the abnormal presence of men in black suits, asking questions and observing the aftermath of the disappearance or death.

He understood the reality about the men in suits. The rest was more difficult.

From what he heard, the individuals whom were to be extracted were chosen because of some problem with their consciousness. They were the ones who, due to some sort of 'programming error' were less likely to accept reality as it was presented to them. They were expected to comprise slightly more than one percent of the total human population. Mathematically, that meant that there were, approximately, sixty seven million 'potential freedminds', as he had heard him called, worldwide

The names were still coming in, the screen still scrolling, now too quickly to view. He sighed, and looked at the number at the bottom right of the screen.

**1,879,237 Entrees**

The number continued rising, far faster than he could count. He sighed again. 

"Are we...supposed to investigate..._all of them_?" 

Cohen scowled. "Don't be ridiculous." He bit down on his tongue. "Go ahead and save the message, than filter out all the names of those _not _present in the tri-state area."

The processor looked up at him, and nodded. "Of course, sir." She rapidly tapped her hands against the keyboard, and a new box appeared over the endless names.

The computer beeped again, and nearly seventh-eights of the entrees disappeared, leaving behind most of those with typical English-sounding names.   

The Chief of Building Security nodded. "That's better. Now...filter out all those with ages below twenty-one and below..." he paused for a moment. "…above thirty-five." 

"Of course." She tapped the keyboard again. Again, a considerable majority of most of the names disappeared. 

Cohen nodded. He tapped the screen. "These are them." He looked at the number.

**58,421 Entrees**

He smiled. He had to hand it to the System Administrators: whoever or whatever they were, they certainly knew how to cut the ranks. Even if the so-called War, that Cohen had no idea existed until he had first been told, was over, the Administrators weren't about to allow their former enemies to swell in rank during the peace. The mandate of 'relocation and emigration' was being carried out worldwide, as Cohen had heard from his human counterparts, and Agent Thompson was responsible for his own area. Fifty-four thousand, four hundred and twenty one suspects. It was far less than the nearly a million that had originally been suspect. The guidelines had been provided by Thompson himself

Cohen did not have clearance to know, but had he, he would have realized how right he was. In truth, the Zionist negotiators had informed the Machinist bodies that it would not be necessary to 'relocate' anyone older than thirty-five years of age, as to free someone that old usually had undesirable side effects such as insanity and/or death. The Machinists, however, had secretly decided on the lower age limit: the Zionists had originally intended to free young children when they saw fit, but the Machinists refused to take part in this. The moral argument was that such youths often had families that cared deeply for them, in the form of mothers, fathers, and so forth. To free them, in effect, to have those who knew them find them missing and presumed dead, was cruel and unusual.

Of course, that was only one reason. Others, ones that had far greater impact on the machines, existed.

"Still, almost sixty-thousand. That's a lot of people. Especially considering it's _our_ responsibility."

Cohen nodded. Prior to his assignment here, he had worked for the Israeli Intelligence Department, commonly known as the Mossad. He knew, from first hand experiences that a large governmental organization like that could relocate, and even kill, several thousand individuals, if the need arouse. It had been done in the past: the Russian KGB with political dissidents, the 'Trotskyites', the German Gestapo with 'undesirables', primarily Jews and Communists, and the American CIA with the _Nisei_, or Second-Generation Japanese, or Vietnamese villagers during wartime. 

Still, asking a relatively small group of fifty-seven men and women and three agents to do that was rather unreasonable.  Furthermore, they were Peacekeepers. And contrary to what many of the harsher critics of the United Nations argued, they were not murderers like those other organizations. At least, that was not their primary assignment. Their primary assignment, as it had been blatantly stated in the UN Charter, was to keep the peace. 

At any cost. And if a few pesky heretics had to be killed from time to time, for the greater good, so be it. It wasn't like it was anything new.

Cohen scratched his nose. "Agent Thompson will want this. Forward it to him."

The operator looked at him. 

"To his office," he explained. "Just as if he were a normal human."

She turned back to the monitor and allowed her fingers to rapidly play along the keyboard once more. Cohen sighed and felt around his pockets, producing a cigarette. In a tradition set by the Prussian military, the operator reached into her blouse pocket, produced a small lighter, and lit his cigarette for him.

He nodded his thanks. "There's a lot of work to be done. Let's see how Thompson deals with sixty-thousand candidates."

Through the enigmatic door, a crashing sound could be hard, momentarily catching Cohen's attention. The sound had been a result of Agent Johnson sending Lt. Colonel Springfield's head through a wooden support beam. She let go of her blade and slowly turned towards Johnson, racking her bruised brain for some way to fight him. Just as she blacked out, she reached towards her foot. Typically, in her boots, she kept a small throwing knife stowed their, and had considered hurling it at Johnson's head. If she hadn't fallen unconscious shortly after, she would have recalled that she was not in her typical mode of dress. 

Johnson watched her as she felt face forward, her posterior propped into the air by her legs and waist, in a comical manner, beaten. Behind him, he sensed the presence of another figure, and swung around, just in time to block Arisaka's blade with his own. A quick elbow to the face sent her faltering backwards. Johnson leaned forward and dragged the tip of his blade near the ground, towards Arisaka, who closed her eyes by instinct.

When she opened them back up she found herself uninjured. She stood up and watched as the left sleeve of her judo attire slipped off, revealing an injured shoulder. She looked at her bare shoulder and emitted a low chuckle, before falling back onto the ground.

"Wow! It's like 'Kenshin', but with white guys in suits!"

Johnson spotted Corporal Enfield, who immediately emitted a 'eep' noise, and spun around, running for cover. 

"Agent Johnson!"

The Program Johnson turned the other way, seeing Daniel Pienaar, holding his sword with the hilt pointed towards the Agent. He than tossed the katana away, and smiled as it clattered on the floor. His mouth was bleeding heavily. "How about we settle this like gentlemen?" he asked, raising his fists.

Johnson nodded slightly and tossed his own blade away. He raised his own cuff-linked fists.

Pienaar grinned. "I can't believe you bought that." He reached into his attire and withdrew a thin knife he had retrieved from the display of Samurai armor in the center of the room, and hurled it at Johnson.

It did not, however, have the effect he was hoping for. Johnson's body bent backwards, his feet remaining firmly planted on the floor, in a seemingly impossible fashion, as the blade bore itself into the wall behind him. 

Daniel looked at his twin brother lying unconscious on the floor not far from him. "Crap. I'm out of ideas. You Agents can't be killed."

Johnson nodded his head again and quickly dispensed of Daniel by throwing him into one of the paper walls with considerable force, specifically, the one where Enfield was hiding. The two crashed together through it and into the rest of the void, in a painful manner. 

The Agent nodded, and slowly scanned the room, finding the last remaining human. His attention stopped at the collection of Samurai armor that had remained more or less untouched, and with slow, deliberate steps, he approached it. With his arm he knocked it out of the way, the display collapsing to his left. Behind it stood Alexi Mosin, who immediately raised both hands up in the manner of surrendering. He did not use blades: he had been in the Soviet Armed Forces, which had stopped using blades shortly after it was founded, and only because of technological limitations. 

Johnson reached forward and grabbed him by the collar of his clothing, and was about to knock him into submission when data rushed from his earpiece into his consciousness. Mosin watched, more than a little unnerved, as Johnson remained very still, his expression indiscernible behind his sunglasses. 

After a moment, when the transmission had finished, he released Mosin, who fell to the ground, next to the wrecked armor. He turned towards the others.

"You did well. But you could be much better." He straightened out his suit. "More practice is needed," he said coldly.

He turned towards the ever-present door that they had entered through. As he slowly walked towards it, the Dojo walls began to vanish just as they had appeared. He opened the door, and took one look back. 

"You should get some rest."

Agent Johnson stepped through, and disappeared. Mosin, literally the last human standing, looked blankly at the door, and then looked down to see that his previous attire had returned. He was now dressed in the same, undamaged jumpsuit he had entered the void in. 

He shook his head and quickly and ran over to his nearest companion, Commander Springfield. Carefully, he lifted her to her feet, pulling her limp head back. "Comrade Commander! Commander, are you injured?" She too was dressed in her original, undamaged clothes, but her injuries had persisted, and a small trickle of blood was visible running down from her forehead. "Commander, can you hear me?"

Mosin felt Springfield's head, and underneath the orange hair, there was a surprisingly large bruise. "We'd better get you to the medical level," he explained, hoping she could hear him, as he stood her up the best he could, still supporting her over his shoulder. He turned to the others. "Hey! Are you all right? Come on, we should go!"

Enfield slowly rose to her feet. "Whoa. Bullocks that _hurt_. We got the crap beaten out of us, didn't we?" she asked, and looked around. "Hey, what happened to the walls?"

Mosin shrugged. "I suppose Comrade Johnson terminated the program," he commented humorously. 

"At least," she said, limping over to Alexi, "…he did not terminate _us_. God, I think I sprained my ankle."

From the floor, Charles Pienaar sighed deeply. "Let's not forget...ass-kicking is their purpose."

           **III**

"I am somewhat disappointed," the Program Thompson explained bluntly. He kept one hand in his pocket.

"We did not recover as much as we had expected," the Program Johnson agreed dryly. 

"Perhaps we are asking the wrong questions?" offered the Program Jackson, cocking his head slightly.

The three stood in Thompson's office on the top floor, in a triangle, behind a metal chair. Restrained in the chair sat the System Administrator, the Merovingian, with numerous medical devices running along his body, his body limp. 

"It did not answer the question about the girl…"

"Miss Nos-Red-Na," the other commented, emphasizing each syllable.

"She remains a System Anomaly." 

The three looked at the Merovingian, or more specifically, the back of his head. 

"Should we continue?" Thompson asked his companions.

"To do so may kill him. For him, the death is real."

That was true, the Agent Leader had to admit. A death in the Matrix was only as real as it was interpreted. Humans, with their soft, mushy brains, were so tightly hardwired into the Matrix that a death for them there was invariably a death in the Real. For programs like Thompson, who were equipped not only with the ability to override and 'inhabit' another human's personal code, but also special devices that allowed them to immediately jettison their 'hosts' when they wanted to, and would automatically activate in the even that a host was too damaged to be effective, the death was not real at all. In this sense, death did not exist for Guardians.

The Merovingian, on the other hand, was different. He had been a System Administrator, residing in the human world, with a human shell, for literally centuries during the various versions of the Matrix. Death was very real for him, as was pain. 

Thompson nodded. Still, there might be something they had missed. And ultimately, they were going to delete him, eventually. Whether he was killed like a human or otherwise remained to be seen. "Call the Physician. Tell her to treat him until the next session."

Johnson nodded and raised a hand, pressing it against his earpiece. He was accessing the communications grid, 'dialing' the number of Dr. Akasi's pager. 

Agent Thompson slowly circled the Merovingian and approached his desk. Without sitting down, or even touching anything, the monitor on his desk clicked on as the computer hummed to life. A familiar logo, with the words _Windows XE _beneath it in English, came onto the flat screen monitor, as it quickly loaded up.

Agent Jackson watched him move behind the desk, still standing, and pressing a few keys on the keyboard. "The Security Staff has sent you the list of candidates?"

Thompson nodded. "Fifty-eight thousand, four hundred twenty one." And while his tone of voice rarely changed tone, he felt reasonably confident. Realistically speaking, he knew they would never be able to organize the safe ejection and survival of so many humans. It was hardly their fault either: they were only responsible for the organizational segment of the operation. The Zionists, or whatever was left of their mobilization capacity, both in the Real and in the Matrix, were responsible for the evacuations. 

Thompson did not have the complete knowledge of the casualties the humans had suffered at the Battle of Zion. He had not been cleared, and honestly, he was not particularly curious. But he did know that the losses were severe. The humans had only a handful of ships remaining. Optimistically, they could probably only evacuate a handful of individuals a week.

Thompson's had slowly went over the white plastic computer mouse and clicked the left mouse key, closing the file. He had taken note of all the information, stored it in his consciousness, and even decided on a list of ten most candidates that were most 'favorable', as determined by a set of factors he had compiled using his best judgment. "How is the Command Staff?"

"They are sufficiently qualified such assignments," Johnson explained. 

"By your judgment, you deem them qualified," Jackson commented.

There was a silence in the office, interrupted only as the door opened and two security personnel removed the Merovingian from the chair and out of the office. Thompson stared over his desk and at Johnson, without his tie and sunglasses. It occurred to him that the humans had probably removed them during the training exercise. That, to a certain extent, impressed him: he recalled during his own clash with the Zionist Captain Morpheus, on a moving transport vehicle on the Interstate Freeway. 

Morpheus had cut away his tie. 

Agent Thompson knew very well that he had possessed the ultimate authority in Union Plaza.

"Humans are often times surprising," he said finally. 

The decision was made. 

"Give them time to rest. We'll handle the first operation on our own," Johnson suggested.

Finally, they were returning to their work. "Who is the first candidate?" Jackson asked, apparently satisfied.

"A corporate executive known as Nathan M. Cook. Resides in proximity of the building."

"He is the first."

Thompson turned to Jackson. "Send a message to our contact in Zion. Inform them of the situation."

Jackson nodded slightly. "To make the necessary preparations." He left the office, without another word. 

Thompson turned to Johnson. "We will do this without the humans. They will not be necessary."

Johnson slowly nodded his head, in a gradual motion.

"And fix your appearance."

           **IV**

The Building Physician Dr. Akasi did not like it. She did not like it one bit.

It was not that she disliked her new profession. Previously, she had served formally as a professor at Columbia University, specifically, for classes on medicine and human physiology in Columbia College. While it had been a comfortable job, it paled in comparison to her new vocation. They had gone as far as to double a payment, to a yearly salary of six-digits, very good for someone of her age. In addition, the benefits were quite enormous.

The only thing that could make it better, she decided, was that if the United States followed the international custom of refraining from taxing employees of the United Nations. Such a custom was not followed in the US, probably due to fierce anti-UN sentiment, as well as a few other nations, such as Turkey. However, it was a relatively minor inconvenience. If she chose to, she could merely file her taxes to the United Nations budget offices and be compensated. 

Truth be told, Dr. Akasi did not really consider that she worked for the United Nations. The only thing that immediately reminded was that Union Plaza was under control of the UNRED was the blue Peacekeeping Insignia that was stamped on the arm of her white laboratory coat, above the five letters of the department, and the same insignia printed on her identification pad hanging from a small string around her neck. Had those been taken away, she could have just as well been working for another wealthy corporation or private firm. 

But then again, only the United Nations, for the most part, knew about the Matrix.

And that was what bothered her. The Matrix.

Her intensive studies for the data she had collected on Raye A. Nosredna were interrupted as the hydraulic door to the medical offices slid open. She turned to see Lt. Colonel Springfield wander in, a hand over her head, smiling faintly.

"Hey Doc," she mumbled.

She swiveled her chair around. "Can I help you, Commander Springfield?"

She pointed at her head. "I have...one hell of a headache...is there anything you can give me for it? Or do I have to go out and buy some aspirin like everyone else?"

Akasi sighed. "Come over here, let me see it." Springfield approached her desk and knelt down, and Akasi inspected the others head. Sure enough, a very prominent bump had formed in the area. "This is quite serious, actually. What happened?"

Springfield shrugged. "Not much. Basically, Johnson broke a wooden support beam with my head." 

Akasi couldn't help but chuckle, which got a chuckle in response from Springfield. "Quite interesting men, aren't they?"

Springfield bobbed her head up and down. "Yeah, they sure are."

She brought Springfield up, and added on a more serious, but still good-natured, note, "You probably have a concussion."

"Yeah, that's what I figured." 

"You should probably rest for a few days."

Springfield laughed. "Yeah, that's going to happen. Just give me a serious painkiller, all right?"

Akasi sighed, not at all surprised. _The worse type of patient is the one who does not wish to be helped. _"Very well. I have something that should help a lot. Try not to send your head through any more support beams." 

"Will do, Doc."

Akasi stood up from her chair and walked over to a nearby medical cupboard, and opened the door, as Springfield slid into the seat. The Commander of Union Plaza spun the chair around briefly, amusing herself, until her eyes came upon the flat screen monitor on the desk. 

"Cool screensaver you got here, Doc," she added, rubbing her head. 

Dr. Akasi turned away from the cabinet, holding two small plastic bottles. Springfield was staring at the display of the Matrix's code, or specifically, a sequence of Miss Nosredna's code, green numbers and characters slowly sliding down the screen, interrupted by strange patterns. "That's not a screensaver, Colonel."

Springfield frowned. "Then what is it?"

Dr. Akasi returned to her desk, holding two small bottles with white labels. "I suppose, seeing how you're the commander, you have a right to know." She gestured with her head towards it. "It's the Matrix. Our reality, broken down into displayable code."

Springfield turned her chair a quarter of the way around so that she was facing the monitor. "No shit?"

Akasi shook her head. "Exactly. It's not the whole Matrix, just part of it. This is the code for a human. Or at least, for the human's...image...in the Matrix."

Springfield whistled. "Wow. That's...that just blows my mind."

The Physician nodded, setting down the two bottles on the desk. "Take one of these every four hours when you can afford to sleep," she explained, gesturing to the bottle. "Then take two of these every six hours when you have to stay awake."

"How does it work?"

Akasi cocked her head. "Well, the chemicals in the pills are similar to the ones in..."

"I mean the code, Doc," Springfield snapped. 

"Oh. That." Akasi looked at the monitor. "It's quite complicated, actually."

Springfield took one of the bottles, screwed open the lid, and swallowed two pills. "Try me. I'm not as stupid as you eggheads think."

Akasi smirked and nodded. "All right." Truth be told, as a former-professor, she did love teaching. But there was only one way to explain something properly. "Take off your top. I'll go get the pads."

Several floors above them, Enfield nursed her painful ankle in the privacy of her own room, a converted office. On the small table next to her 'bed', a couch with a bed sheet over it, was a miniature DVD player and display screen. On the screen, an episode of the popular television series _Neon Genesis Evangelion_, played with small sound. 

There was a knock on the door. Enfield looked up momentarily from the screen, and considered her states of dress: her underwear and an oversized _Final Fantasy X _T-shirt. She shrugged: humility was overrated. Besides, if someone wanted to catch a glimmer, they were better off visiting Arisaka or Springfield, both who had larger, more developed bodies than Enfield. 

"Come in. It's unlocked."

The door opened to reveal Alexi Mosin, still clad in his jumpsuit. In his hand he held a blue rubber bag with a lid. "I hope this isn't a bad time. I brought you some ice for your ankle," Mosin explained.

Enfield smiled. "You're too nice a guy to be in the Russian Special Forces, Alex, you know that?"

Alexi smiled vaguely, and entered the room. "You'd be surprised, Comrade." He sat down on the couch next to Enfield. "Here, I think this will help, EE." He set on the bag of ice on her swollen ankle.

"Thanks. To be honest, I don't think it's that bad. Just a little twisted."

He nodded. "That's good to hear. What are you watching?" He craned his head slightly. "Ah, more _anime_," he commented, putting emphasis on the word. 

EE grunted. "I'll have you know that this is a deep philosophical thriller that is as _weird as hell_. Way better than any of the stuff broadcasted locally."

Alexi shrugged. "I'm not one to judge. I have awful taste in television, besides."

"It's basically seeing how much one series with less than thirty episodes can alienate people. Particularly on religion. Particularly on Christianity."

Alexi nodded. "Ah. Well, I can't help you there. I'm Jewish."

"Fine, _Judeo-Christian _Theology. Old Testament stuff."

He shrugged. "I guess." 

"It's good. Real good."

Alexi smiled. "I believe you." He took on a more philosophical air. "I'm going out to get a beer from the kitchen. You want anything? You're old enough to drink in this country, right?"

EE shook her head, laughing. "Yes, I am, you bloody prick. Get me a _Pepsi_ though. I heard the beer here sucks."

Alexi frowned. "Now, that's a little harsh. Have you even tried it?"

"I've heard rumors. Bad rumors."

"All right...one _Pepsi. _Anything else?"

She shook his head. "That'll be good, thanks." 

He rose to his feet. "Enjoy your...Judeo...Christian..._thing_..." He left the room, leaving Enfield to watch her DVD, and walked down the hallway. As he reached the door to Arisaka's room, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box of bandages, then knocked. "Izumi, may I come in...?"

On the cafeteria level, which was essentially the building's original cafeteria, remodeled and reequipped, the building's Human Maintenance Staff, as they were officially known, moved around, preparing for the next day's breakfast. There existed a low-level hum of multiple conversations, interrupted occasionally by the sound of clattering cooking ware.

"How you hanging up there, Raye?" one of the Senior Cooks, Mrs. Myers, passed around. The twenty-one women and men, now including Raye A. Anderson, that made up the Maintenance Division stood in various positions around the Main Kitchen, a few of them working the ovens and stoves.

"Fine, thank you," she commented from her post. 

"Hey, did you work in the kitchen at the last place?" asked a younger cook, a woman in her twenties with short black hair, who was inspecting silverware from a tray. 

"Come on, now, Nabiki, you know she was a waitress, isn't that good enough?" chided Mrs. Myers, as she past Raye's post and took a place at her oven. "Don't pry. It's rude."

"No, no, it's all right. I don't mind. Ask away," Raye offered. 

Nabiki laughed, setting down a silverware set into a drawer. "All right. I heard you used to work at that place owned by the _Merovingian_…"

The hum of conversation quickly died down, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence. Raye looked around the kitchen nervously.

"Well, I...uh..."

"You don't have to answer that, Raye," Mrs. Myers added quietly.

The silence continued until the sound of swinging doors opening was heard, followed by the sound of several pots crashing to the floor, and a rushed apology by a male voice with Slavic accent.

"Oh, my, I'm _very_ sorry..." the voice explained sheepishly, pronouncing the word 'vally'. 

Nabiki turned to the source of the distraction and quickly jumped on it. "Hold on, Raye, let me get that..." She closed the drawer, wiped her hands on her apron, and rushed towards the door.

Mrs. Myers turned to Raye. "You'll have to forgive Raye. She's very intelligent, very resourceful. And like her role model, a trafficker of information," she explained with a sigh.

Raye blinked. "You mean...the Mero…?"

At the doors, Nabiki helped the newcomer to his feet. "You all right, sir?"

"I'm fine, just banged my arm a bit, thank you. Sorry about the mess…" he said and reached down and lifted a pot, setting it onto a counter. 

Nabiki stood up, holding two more pots. "It's all right, don't worry about it, Mister..."

"Ah, just Alex. Alexi Mosin. I'm with Commander Springfield." He stuck out his hand. 

"Really? I couldn't tell, what with the jumpsuit and all," Nabiki joked as she hung the three pots on a rack hanging from the ceiling. The Maintenance Staff wore the same style of jumpsuits as the Command Staff underneath their aprons, with the ends of the 'V' beneath the arms, but unlike the blue and black worn by the Commanders, theirs was yellow and black. 

Mosin laughed. "I suppose not."

"How can I help you, Alex?"

"I was hoping that your kitchen could provide me with three beers, a decaffeinated coffee, and a _Pepsi_. If that's not possible, maybe instructions to the nearest _Seven-Eleven_?"

She nodded. "I'll see what I can do." She approached a large, silver-plated refrigerator, as large as a closet, one of several positioned around the kitchen, and pulled it open, than leaned inwards. "Any specific beer in mind?"

"As long as it's alcoholic, that'll do fine."

Nabiki chuckled. "All right. Ah, we don't have _Pepsi_. How about a _Coca-Cola_?"

"It's the same, right?"

"Pretty much. Heads up!"

Alexi backed up and caught an aluminum can in his hand, like a baseball.

Nabiki looked out from behind the refrigerator door. "You got it?"

"Yes, but ah...please don't throw..."

Nabiki disappeared behind the silver door and a green long-necked bottle emerged from above the door. Alexi spotted it in its flight, quickly set the can on the counter, and caught the beer bottle. 

"Are you listening to me?" he cried out, exasperated. "What if..."

"Two more, incoming!" she shouted. The Ukrainian set down the beer and caught the remaining two as they came his way, and caught one in each hand.

Nabiki shut the door and turned to the two large percolators on the counter. "Decaf, right?"

"Yes. Please don't do that again."

"Don't worry, I won't throw the coffee..." Nabiki assured him, flipping the switches at the base of the first percolator's tank. The coffee-maker began to heat up and hummed to life, as she set a spherical glass coffee pot underneath the nozzel. "The containers aren't sealed..." she explained, before ducking over into a cabinet. 

"Good to hear."

Nabiki produced a bag of coffee and poured part of the contents into the top, than twisted the dial. "So, I heard you met the boss, huh?"

Alexi frowned. "Actually, I met her a while ago."

Nabiki looked from the percolator. "_Her_? No...I mean the _big _boss. Those guys in the suits...what's his name?"

"Oh…Agent Thompson?"

"That's him. Looks like an aging stuntman in a business suit?"

Alexi smiled. "That sounds about right."

The percolator began to percolate, and Nabiki leaned on the counter, facing Alexi Mosin. "So, what's he like?"

"Agent Thompson? Well...he's...interesting." He paused. "You know he's...that he's a computer program, right?"

Nabiki smiled. "Yes. A little hard to believe, but given what I've seen recently, that explains a few things." 

"Well...he behaves like that. He doesn't really have much of an actual...personality. He's pretty intimidating." He scratched the back of his head. "To be honest, I can't really describe him."

"I guess not." She paused. "Well, what do you know?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well...is he married?"

Alexi nearly tripped. "_Married_? How...you know, I have no idea, but I don't think so, and to be honest, I think he's out of your league, actually. From what I've heard, he's really seventy-years old."

"Fine, fine, I was just curious." She turned back to the dripping, bubbling coffee maker, and watched as the pot filled. "There are two other guys…other 'Agents', right? What are their names?"

"Johnson and Jackson?"

"Yeah. How can you tell the difference between them?"

Alexi smiled. It dawned on him he could have a little entertainment at Nabiki's expense. "What do you mean? They're obvious differences, how could you mistake them? Just because they're wearing all the same clothes..."

"Fine, fine, I'll say it: I'm Japanese, and all white people look more or less the same to me," Nabiki snapped, as the coffee pot filled. "There, you happy?" 

Alexi gave a chuckle, and Nabiki waved her head, tossing her short hair. "Seriously, though..."

He nodded. "I agree, they do look quite similar, even if you see them up close. However, I believe that Agent Thompson is the oldest looking, and Agent Jackson is the youngest. And Agent Johnson has a more prominent chin. Well, I mean, not like _Jay Leno _or anything."

Nabiki nodded her head, removing the pot from the stand, and switching off the percolator. "_Arigato_. Here you go." She approached him, holding the coffee pot by the handle and a few empty paper cups in the other. "Hope that's enough." 

"Plenty for all of us." He smiled. "How much do I owe you?"

"...twenty bucks?"

Alexi laughed, but stopped as he realized she was not laughing with him, "...you're kidding."

"All right, it's free this time around. Next time, though..." She rubbed her thumb and index finger together. "It'll cost you."

"I'll keep that in mind." He gathered up the three beers, soda, and coffee pot as best he could. "I suppose I'll see you around…"

"You'll see me tomorrow, and every morning, if you guys come for breakfast." She gave him a thin smile. "Unless you think you're too good to eat with the grunts and us cooks."

"Now, now, I don't think that's the case. Good evening, comrade." Pushing the door open with his foot and shuffled out, heading for the elevator. Once on it, he pressed the button for his floor with his elbow, and the car lifted upwards. A few moments after one of the beers slipped from his grip and shattered against the floor, the car past the Medical Level, where the Commander of Union Plaza was busy experimenting with the Physician of Union Plaza.

"So, this isn't going to hurt, right?" Lt. Colonel Springfield sat topless on an examination table, two electrode pads stuck to her forehead, and several others stuck to various parts of her chest.

"It shouldn't until I start the current flowing..."

"_What_?"

"Calm down, I'm joking. The current is so low, you won't feel a thing, I assure you."

Springfield rolled her eyes and nodded reluctantly, feeling more than a little exposed. Akasi bent down and reached into her coat, producing a stethoscope, putting it on. She pressed the receptor against Springfield's sternum.

"Christ, that's cold!"

Akasi rolled her eyes. "The finest the United Nations has to offer..." she muttered. "Take a deep breath and hold it, all right?"

Springfield complied, and Akasi listened carefully, taking note of the beats. "All right. Now, before we begin, I need to ask you some questions," she mumbled in such a manner that did not seem to express much interest. 

"Shoot."

"Do you have any allergies?"

Springfield thought for a moment. "Johnson grass."

"Have you recently consumed any alcoholic beverages?"

Springfield frowned. "Yes, I have."

"Oh well." Akasi continued. "Are you in the middle or about to begin your menstruation period?"

Springfield stared at Akasi. "No, Doc."

Akasi nodded. "All right. Now, sit back and let the machines do the rest." Akasi walked back to her desk, glanced at the keyboard next to the monitor, and quickly pressed a sequence of keys. The various machines that were wired to Springfield's electrodes hummed to life, and lines of code, though still readable text in English, quickly displayed on the screen. 

"What you're attached to are just basic medical monitors," Akasi explained from the desk. "Cardiac, Neurological, the usual. It won't show the actual code."

Springfield turned momentarily and stared at the cardiac monitor to her right. "As a precaution?"

"Very good, Commander."

"Well, we Peacekeepers aren't nearly as stupid as the rest of the world credits us to be. Or, for that matter, the rest of the world." 

Akasi produced a hypodermic needle, and a small vial. "This chemical is the thing that actually does the trick. It's a special program that causes you code to be highlighted and more pronounced. The computer has a special program installed that can read the code." She jammed the needle into the vial and pulled back the plunger. 

"That's it?"

"Yeah, it's that simple. The chemicals were provided to us by whoever also gave us those Agents," she explained, squirting a small amount of chemical out. "Any objections to shots?"

Springfield smirked, and stuck out her arm. "I was shot in Bosnia. I think I can take a little pin-prick." 

"Where, if I may ask?" Akasi questioned as she injected the chemical to a vein in Springfield's arm.

"Upper chest. Right clavicle. Seven-Point-Sixty-Two, Em-Ninteen Forty-Three," she explained, describing the M1943 ammunition used by the popular AK-47. "Passed right through."

Akasi craned her head over as pushed the plunger down. She spotted the scar, a notable round mark. "Huh. What do you know." She looked at Springfield's back. "Another mark. Must have hurt."

"Like hell, I remember. Being a Peacekeeper sucks."

"So I've heard. Out of curiosity, why did you choose to become a Peacekeeper? It's not exactly a glamorous job, and it popularity compares with that of...I don't know. Intestinal parasite?"

Springfield nodded. "Yeah, I know."

"So, again, why?" Akasi asked, tossing the needle into a bin marked with the universal biological warning symbol. "Or are the warnings of Bill O'Reiley true? That the UN is conscripting the world's youth and corrupting them into satanic pawns?"

Springfield laughed. "I joined of my own free will, actually. And I think that was that other guy...on the radio...with the drug thing?"

"Rush Limbaugh?"

"Yeah, him." She looked at the computer monitor, only able to see the back of it. "How long does it take this to work?"

"A few minutes. But you didn't answer my question. Why?"

Springfield leaned back on the table. "Come to think of it, I'm not completely sure. My parents both worked with the UN. That might have something to do with it." She smiled. "Your usual left-wing liberal maniacs."

"Not many of those left nowadays. I though they died out."

She sighed. "They did. Or at least, mine did." For a moment, she paused, and looked at one of the electrodes stuck on her shoulder. "Or maybe it was because I thought I could make a difference. I was young and naïve." 

"You're not that old yet, Colonel."

"No, I guess not."

"Anyway, I thought we were making a the world a better place. We may not have been, but at least we weren't carpet-bombing innocent civilians. Back then, an entire UN platoon had to share a single rifle. We didn't have bombs or anything like that. Maybe that was for the better."

Akasi mumbled something as she checked the monitor. 

"That was a different time, the Nineties. Back before they started calling us _smurfs_."

Akasi smiled. "Out of curiosity, Colonel, that name..."

"It's exactly why you think. The blue helmets. One of the reasons that, nowadays, only the assault divisions wear them, and only in military parades. The rest of us wear berets usually." 

"I always wondered about that."

"Now, it's different. I joined the Special Operations unit. We have guns. We wear black. Good for scaring whackos in places like…"

"Georgia? Or Alabama?" 

Springfield frowned. "How did you know?"

"That little mark."

Springfield looked at her arm. On it was a tattoo, near the wrist. "Oh yeah. Almost forgot that." 

"Team Seventeen, North American Forces, SO unit," Akasi commented, not looking up from the monitor. 

The tattoo was a distinctive pattern in dark blue, the United Nations insignia, a world surrounded by two olive branches, surrounded by various other designs, and words reading 'Special Operations Division, Team 17, North American Area, 2004'. 

"Everyone knows about those incidents in Georgia and Alabama," Akasi commented. "The first part of 'Aggressive Peacekeeping'. An oxymoron, if there ever was one."

Springfield laughed. "I guess so. But I don't care what anyone says..."

"A little more than controversial. The United States nearly left the UN. They probably would have, if it wasn't for the fact that their vote on the Security Council would have been given to Canada." 

"We had good reason. Both times, they took hostages. Foreign workers. Backwater nutcases."

Akasi nodded. "I know. I watched the news, as well. Though I think you're a little quick to judge those people."

"Screw them. They tried to kill us. And they did, from time to time." She sighed. "Sixty kids, just like me, died there. Even then, we had to bring them in alive. Have them stand for crimes against humanity. Hanged them later. At least we got those hostages." 

The Physician of Union Plaza began to realize the touchy nature of the subject, and pressed a key on the monitor. "All right, its working."

"Lemme see."

Akasi spun the monitor around on its stand, so that it faced Springfield, who squinted. "So that's...me?" She watched as green characters scrolled down the screen, disappearing after a moment. 

"Well...yes and no...from what I've learned, this is displaying a mix of the code that you're sending from your pod in the Real, controlling your body in the Matrix, and then the code coming back from the Matrix, simulating Reality." She tapped the screen. "It's complicated. I've only begun to be able to read a little of it."

"What can you tell me?"

Akasi looked at the monitor. "Not much besides that nothing is obviously wrong with your code. I'll save it, keep it for future reference, when I can actually read it." She looked up. "I'm afraid that's all there is to it. You should probably get some rest for that injury to your head."

Springfield nodded, and checked her watch. "Two in the morning. Good grief, I didn't realize it was so late." She stood up off the examination table, and pulled off the electrodes by the bunch. The series of numbers came to an end on the monitor, and Springfield lifted up the top of her jumpsuit from her waist and zipped it up, then took the two bottles. "Thanks for the painkillers, Doc."

"You're quite welcome, Lieutenant Colonel," she assured him. Just as Springfield headed for the exit, she looked up. "Oh, and may I make a request, Commander?"

Springfield turned, surprised. "Go ahead."

"Don't...tell Agent Thompson, or his companions, that I told you any of this. Frankly, this is all supposed to be on a need-to-know basis, and I'm sure they feel they've told us too much as it is."

Springfield nodded, and gave her a melancholy half-smile. "Well, to be honest, Doctor, I don't think we can keep anything from those three. But that's just me."

           **V**

The sun was beginning to rise over the city. The three occupants of a black BMW5, cruising through those streets, that early morning, knew very well it was not really a 'sun', in the concept that the sun was a star that released visible light energy and invisible heat energy, along with vast amounts of cosmic radiation, from the fusion process of consuming hydrogen fuel. The sun did not exist: it was merely a clever optical illusion in the Matrix, that happened to coincide with morning, night, and other times of the day, as well as with the changing of the seasons.

On the other hand, however, Luna was partially real. Luna, or the Moon, as it was sometimes referred to, was still present, though fading from the human spectrum. It was the visible hemisphere that was rendered into the Matrix, with millions of square kilometers of relatively empty space between it and the Earth. It had been created specifically to simulate not only the lunar landings from the year 1969 onward, but also any other incidents that might involve the moon. 

So far, other than lunar probes and landing teams, there had been no such incidents. And there were no hardlines on Luna.

The three occupants, all programs, continued down the streets, at a relatively slow pace. One might even interpret it as 'leisurely, though given the nature of the driver, 'cautious' was a more appropriate term. 

The Program Jackson, behind the steering wheel, kept his foot resting lightly on the accelerator, his eyes scanning the street. Next to him, sat the Program Thompson, staring straight ahead. In the seat hind him sat the Program Johnson. 

They stopped the car before the steps leading up to a towering office building with blue-tinted windows, opened the doors, and climbed the steps. The three passed wordlessly through glass doors and into the lobby. 

"Uh, sirs, can I help you...?" a woman dressed in a neat civilian uniform greeted them. They rushed towards the lobby, and their lines of sight diverged: Johnson stared to the left at the elevators, Jackson to the right to a small cadre of guards posted at that location, and Thompson, in the center, who stared directly at the woman behind the counter.

He processed this for a moment. "We need to see Mr. Cook."

The woman blinked. This was not the first time something like this had happened. But there was something about the way Thompson spoke that made her feel more than vaguely uncomfortable. "Do you have an appointment?"

Thompson turned his head to face Johnson, who nodded his head in the direction of the elevators. The three spun around, without another word, and walked towards the elevators. 

"Uh, sir…sir!"

A security guard stepped from the side and into Thompson's path, only to be shoved out of the way by Thompson's right hand, falling back into his two comrades, nearly knocking them over as well. He and his two counterparts continued unopposed to the elevators, entered the first to arrive, and pressed the button for the highest floor available, the fifty-first.

When the elevator reached the 51st, the hydraulic doors slid open. The three Programs did not pay notice, however. There attention was turned to the ceiling of the elevator car, with a small escape hatch present.

"The objective is on the Administrative Level, on the sixtieth floor," Johnson commented.

"Is he aware we are coming?" Jackson asked.

"Most likely. It is unimportant though," Thompson assured him starkly. 

"He cannot escape," Johnson mumbled. 

A few minutes later, on the 60th floor, Mr. Cook's secretary sat at her desk, her attention distracted by a horrid grinding sound. She turned to her left to see the heavy hydraulic doors of the elevator shaft shuddered, and slowly divided. Between them, pushing one door into its recession, as the hydraulics creaked loudly.

She stood up, panicked, as the elevator doors slid all the way open, and a single largely-built Caucasian man clad in a black suit, tie, and sunglasses climbed out from the hatch, followed by two similarly dressed men. The first man stood up straight, and adjusted the knot of his tie, the other two following suit.

"We need to see Mr. Cook," he announced bluntly. Since he had entered, he had spoken twelve words.

She nodded slowly and sat down, and pressed the speakerphone on her desk. "Sir...there are some men here, who want to see you."

**Author's Note:**

Hello again! Here' the latest chapter, an right off the bat, I'd like to apologize to people from Alabama for using them in a negative stereotype. You might notice I'm not apologizing to people from Georgia: I live in Georgia (the state in the US, not the nation south of Russia where Stalin was born), and the Anti-UN sentiment here is so thick its tangible. 

Anyway, I'm determined to make this a political satire, and as usual, this chapter was rushed, much to my dismay (though I plan to correct the past few chapters, eventually). You'll see more comments on politics, ideology, and race as I go, as well as more apologizes 

             
  


	7. Responsibility

**The Matrix: Deliverance **

**Segment 6 - Responsibility**

He had known this was going to happen, eventually. He had known this for a long time, ever since the Program Smith visited him and warned him of the consequences. He admitted he thought it was a dream.

He was not a Hacker, and made no pretense at being one. He was a legitimate businessman, very possibly the idea of 'yuppie' Capitalism personified. He was still young, having inherited the business from his father, whom had vanished recently, under strange circumstances, along with many others.

That had been after Smith's warning. It had been a telephone call in the night, before his father had died.

He long suspected Smith had something to do with it, though he knew, in the back of his mind, that 'Agent' Smith would not profit from his death. He could tell that about him: men like Smith did not need money, for some reason. Smith had gone ahead and informed him of this, right off. That, to his knowledge, separated Smith from the rest of Humanity. 

He did not know the greater difference. To him, that was all that mattered. Capital dominated a person's character, more often than not. 

And now, three had come, just as Smith had warned in that phone call. Like Smith, they could not be bought off. It was futile, he had decided, to resist them, as he watched them enter the waiting area outside his office, on the monitor.

Just as he sighed, the door opened, and his secretary looked inwards. 

_Here it comes_, he thought, resisting the urge to vomit.

"Sir, there are some men..."

"...from the Federal Government, right?" he mumbled, leaning over his desk. 

She looked back over her shoulder. "Sure, why not?" 

"Let them in," he told the aging secretary. As soon as she closed the door, he yanked out one of the drawers of his desk and began digging through it, searching for the small cyanide capsule he kept hidden there. He told himself to find it before the "men from the Federal Government" arrived, so that he could bite down on it and save himself the trouble of a confrontation. 

_Of course I told her to let them in! If I hadn't, that would have come in just the same, but with their guns_. "Dammit, where is that little thing? I should keep an entire bottle..."

He heard the door open in front of him, and his heart sank into his stomach. He slowly lifted his head up and stared at the door. It slowly opened up, and three men dressed in black suits, ties, and sunglasses entered. 

"Mr. Cook..." the first spoke.

He blinked his eyes. It wasn't the same three men he had met the first time, but this hardly made him feel better. The new men were much taller than Smith and his two partners, with larger statures, broader shoulders, more hair, and generally speaking, what appeared to him to be better hygiene. The first one, apparently the leader, had stepped through the doorway and came to a stop a few steps ahead of it, and his two companions followed, taking their positions to the left and right of him. 

"...you're here, I see," he mumbled. 

The man nodded. 

He looked at him. "...I...I'm wondering, which government agency's jurisdiction do you represent?"

He turned towards the man to his right. "We represent an agency in the United Nations," he recited. 

For a moment, Cook blinked his eyes. "You're _smurfs_ now?" He leaned backwards into his chair and gave a grim snort. From what he had learned about the men in suits, he seriously doubted they were with the 'Federal Government'. He had done his research. They belonged to something greater. Now they claimed to represent the United Nations, here in the city.

He looked at the three men, shaking his head, and his mood returned to that of helplessness. It hadn't just been a bad dream. They were here now. Cook looked at his shoes, underneath the desk, and bobbed his head slightly. 

"Well...I guess...this is it," he mumbled. "I...I don't know why you're doing this, but there's no point in running. Smith said that. And I believe him."

One of the men behind the lead man stared at his companion on the other side of the door briefly. Cook rotated his chair, and held his head in his arms, against the desk.

"Then let's get this over with," he whimpered, his head buried in his arms. "Just do it quickly."

The lead man turned to his companions, appearing confused for a fraction of a second, and turned back to Cook. "I believe you're mistaken," he explained in a apathetic tone of voice.

"We're not here to kill you," another explained.

"On the contrary," the last one commented.

"We're here to offer you a choice," the first finished.

Cook looked up. There were tears in his eyes, and most of the color had drained out of his face. There was a pause, and Cook began to gag, coughed out some phlegm from his throat, and looked directly at the first man. "Who…are you?" he asked weakly.

The man cocked his head slightly, as though he was considering how to respond. He seemed to remember something.

"A. Thompson."

There was pause.

"Agent Thompson." 

**           II**

"Come on! You nearly got her!"

In Union Plaza, on the 44th floor, in one of the offices, two grown woman sat in front of a large flat-screen television. A Sony PlayStation 2 was hooked to the screen, and one of the women, Corporal Enfield, held a black PlayStation controller. With it, she controlled a well-rendered adolescent girl with a shotgun. The girl was trapped in a corridor, and from the camera angle, one could see her emptying shotgun shells into undead monstrosities. Next to the game console lay an empty DVD box, reading _Silent Hill 4_.

"Get 'er! Get 'er!" her companion, Warrant Officer Arisaka, sat next to her on the room's small couch, leaning forward at the screen. "Come on! What's the matter, aren't I feeding you enough?"

Finally, Enfield took her eyes off the screen and looked at her companion. "What the hell are talking about?"

Arisaka cocked an eyebrow, as though Enfield was the bizarre one. "I'm trying to encourage them." 

"Them _who_?"

"The zombies."

Enfield looked at her companion. "You're a really strange one, you know that?"

"I'm not the one awake at three in the morning, playing a video game," Arisaka countered, before emitting her typical grim chuckle.  

"Shut up! In case you haven't noticed, you're here with me!"

Arisaka was no longer paying attention, as a monstrous creature hacked and slashed away at the character on screen. Enfield turned back to the screen, cursed, and tried in vain to fight back, only to be beaten. The girl on screen emitted a cry in pain and fell to the ground, dead.

"See what you made me do?" Enfield snapped at her companion.

Again, Arisaka paid little heed. She looked at the PlayStation 2 console carefully. "Hey, do you have _Dance Dance Revolution_? Or _Karaoke Revolution_?"

"No, actually."

Arisaka closed her eyes and nodded. "You should buy them. I like karaoke." 

Enfield shrugged, and stood up. She reached over to the black console and hit the power button. "So do I, but if you don't mind, I'm going to play _Halo_ now, so deal with it."

Arisaka leaned forward, as Enfield began fiddling with various cables attached to another, larger black box. "Do you have another controller?"

"Yes, but it doesn't matter, because _you're not going to play_."

Arisaka's visible eyebrow shifted. "That's harsh." 

"Live with it," Enfield retorted, producing a small green plastic DVD case with a label that read _Halo 2_ from her pile of cases in front of the TV. 

Arisaka stared at Enfield's back, as she carefully opened the DVD case ad placed it inside the larger black ox, a Microsoft _XBox_. She enjoyed this form of electronic entertainment as well, having first come upon it in her work with the Tokyo Metropolitan Police, in the officer rest lounge as a way to pass time. 

"Well, it's okay. Besides, I think I could beat you," she mumbled softly. 

She barely had time to respond as Enfield hurled a black plastic controller at her. She caught it, and looked up at Enfield, who was visibly enraged. 

"Shut up and play."

From the windows of Enfield's office, one could still clearly see the three-quarters moon, as could anyone whom was still awake during that ungodly hour. The other four members of the Command Staff rested, as did most of the Security Staff, except for those unfortunate enough to be given the early-morning shift. 

One more person remained awake, much to her displeasure. On the Medical Level, a restless soul shuffled in one of the various rooms in the glass-and-steel labyrinth that made up the 30th Floor of Union Plaza. 

Dr. Akasi, the building physician, groped her way to the wall switch and struck it. Light poured from halogen ceiling lamps, and she put an arm before her dilated pupils, cursing under her breath.

Her sleeping area, so to speak, was a converted office next to the bathroom that held a small medical library. She had woken, as she had done every night since she first arrived at Union Plaza. 

Her tired, irritated mind toyed with the idea that she might suffer from insomnia, or sleeping disorder. She would eventually go back to sleep, though at best she could expect between three or four hours of rest before waking up for breakfast. That would be sufficient, however: it was enough to keep up appearances and convince herself that some annoyance had merely woken her up.

"That's right," she mumbled softly, as she padded out of the sleeping area, into a short corridor that led to the main laboratory. "I'll just say it was that stupid woman, Persephone, tapping out message against the walls in Morse code..." This was not entirely false: the wife of the Merovingian, ever since she had been transferred to the makeshift prison on the Medical Level, spent much of her time alone tapping out messages against the steel walls, presumably with the heel of her shoe, neither of which the guards had confiscated from her. Akasi did her best to ignore it, and succeeded for the most part, but it still was irritating. That, however, was not why she had woken up.

In the lab, she found what she was looking for: in the cupboard that held various drugs, a small container of prescription sleeping pills. She took the container, twisted the cap off, and shook two capsules out of the container and into her hand. Akasi looked at them briefly and raised her hand to her mouth, swallowing them. 

She set the container down. The truth was that she suffered from insomnia, a condition that had developed shortly after learning the truth of the Real. The good part of being a licensed physician was that she could write herself prescriptions as she saw fit, and in the same way, she had diagnosed where the insomnia had originated.

The source had surprised her, once she determined the truth. Shortly after leaving Barnard College with her degree in medicine, she had taken a career as a nurse at Mouth Sinai Medical Center in New York, one of the finest hospitals in the world. For a long time she had served as a junior nurse, quite contently, until an unfortunate event with one of her patients. 

This patient, a young man, had suffered from extreme neurological trauma and mental psychosis. He had wandered off the streets one day, hysterically yelling out nonsense. His symptoms were confusing: rapid movements of the eye, convulsions, and other physical outbreaks covered a readily apparent history of depression. 

She had done all he could with him. But in the end, she had still been too young, too inexperienced, and the best she could do was provide him with a heavy dosage of morphine to help ease his pain before he went into a comatose state.

He died shortly after. 

The others at Mount Sinai tried to console her that it had not been her fault, that sometimes, regrettably, people just died. However, she realized something else from the experience there: she could not handle the loss of another patient. With this in mind, she left Mount Sinai and returned to Barnard College as a professor's aide. 

As much as the experience ate away at her inside, it had not caused her current insomnia. She had buried it in the recesses of her mind, underneath her congealed, coldly intellectual exterior.  

In a few years, she had her master degree, and switched over to the teacher's field, going to Barnard's co-educational equivalent, Columbia College. She remained there, forcing the incident either out of her mind or farther into it. In either case, she hadn't thought about it until recently.

And that was when the sleeping troubles began.

It had been Agent Johnson who had spoken to her, a few months ago, with the offer of a job for the United Nations. When she agreed, he went on to further explain the rest of the details, and, eventually, the nature of the Real.

Using what Johnson had told her, she determined that her patient from years before had not been suffering from a depression-induced nervous breakdown. He had been _self-substantiating_, in other words, "proving to himself" the falsity of this plane of exist, the Matrix. Or at least, he had been trying to.

She had no idea what had become of him. For all purposes, he was dead, in this universe of not the other that lay outside the Matrix, the Real. To this day, she had no idea what the Real was like, except for what Johnson had told her in a brief conversation.

"It is a dreary zone," he had told her, in his usual, callous manner. "I believe you humans...would call it 'Purgatory'."

In theory, the realization should have taken the burden off her shoulders. Instead, it had the opposite effect. Since that epiphany, she had increasing difficulty in sleeping.

Dr. Akasi padded back down the hallway into the sleeping chambers. The sleeping pills were already beginning to take effect. She took a brief look out the window, at the cityscape. 

"Let us hope," she mumbled. "That this dream, as unpleasant as it is, does not end."

**           III**

On one of many television screens, "he" watched as the human, Nathan Cook, shuffled about his office, closing the blinds and checking to see if anyone could overheard the conversation to take place. At the desk, the Program Thompson, almost leisurely, his two companions to either side of the door.

When Cook was convinced, he returned to his desk and sat down, slowly. He nodded his head at Thompson. "It's safe to speak now."

Both the observer and Thompson observed the human's strange display of paranoia, and the later began to speak.

"We've had our eye on you for quite some time now, Mr. Cook."

Thompson paused, and his hands slowly drifted into his blazer, and for a second, Cook was certain that he was going to withdraw a gun. Instead, he produced a small, metal case, not much larger than a deck of cards. He held it in his hands and continued.

As "he" watched, Thompson leaned forward, slowly rotating the metal case in his hand. "He" immediately recognized what Thompson was trying to achieve: it was the method of interrogation first developed by the late Program Smith, which was adopted, in one form or another by all other System Guardians in the Matrix.

"You may have noticed…some discrepancies between the world you know and the world you think you know."

Cook looked at Thompson, clearly confused, and his eyes began to wander towards the metal case. Thompson continued.

"I'm going to get to the point, Mr. Cook," he explained.

As soon as he finished, the Program Johnson, standing to the right of the door, spoke.

"We're here to offer you _a choice_, Mr. Cook."

"One that will affect the rest of your life," concluded the Program Jackson, standing to the left of the door. 

The three remained silent, giving the human time to process this. "A choice?"

Thompson reversed the direction that he was rotating the small metal case in his hands. "I'm sure you've realized that you are...different from others. Not in a way that is readily apparent to your fellow man, but in a way that is readily apparent to _you_." Thomson paused. "As well as to us."

Cook had long since decided that nothing to be accomplished against Thompson by deceit, and nodded his head truthfully. 

"There is a world," Thompson began to explain, his voice changing into one full of reason and intellect.. "Another reality. And you realized this some time ago. It is difficult for me to explain...as I have never been there...nor will I ever be there." He rested his elbows on the table. "Another human once described the situation you are in as a 'dream'." He looked directly at Cook. "You have dreams, don't you?"

Cook nodded. "Of course."

"...and these dreams...there are times where they seem more 'real' to you than when you are awake, aren't there?"

Again, there was no point in lying. "Yes, there are."

"I cannot comprehend this, as I do not dream…but tell me," Thompson asked him, with the strange, intellectual tone. "...what if there was a dream that seemed so real, you could not tell if you were awake or still dreaming?" He paused, and his voice became callous and blunt. "Is this how you see it, sir?"

Cook blinked his eyes. "I...I don't really know."

There was a clicking noise, deafening in the silence of the office, and Cook watched as Thompson opened the case, then set it so that the contents were facing him. Inside it were two small, opaque capsules, one red and one blue. They reminded Cook of the painkillers that he tended to abuse during times of stress. 

"You must make a choice," Thompson explained coldly. "You may take the blue capsule. You will rest, and wake in a later time, unaware that any of this happened. You will not remember us. Everything will be as it was, with the exception that you will not remember Agent Smith. Or you may take the red capsule, and find out what it is you are seeing."

Cook stared at the two capsules, and then at his own reflection in Thompson's sunglasses. He slowly stood up, and walked towards an expensive wooden cabinet on the wall. Opening it, he produced a bottle of cognac and a marble glass, then returned the desk, sitting back down.

He pushed the glass and bottle towards Thompson. "Could...could you please pour me some?" he asked meekly. His voice was barely audible. 

Thompson looked at the bottle slowly and reached forward, removing the cap, and began pouring translucent red liquid into the glass. Cook stared at the two capsules, and slowly extended his arm, reaching for the blue capsule. Just as it seemed he would close his hand around it, he jerked his arm to the right and snatched the red capsule away, forced it into his mouth, and quickly downed the glass of cognac. 

He emitted a gasp, with his eyes watering, and spoke in a raspy voice. "You're welcome to try any, if you'd like," he offered helpfully, though he did not expect them too.

Agent Thompson nodded his head and stood up to his feet. "You've made your decision. We will leave, though you are not to. You have some time to resolve any last issues, as you will not be able to return. You may use this medium," he said, gesturing to the telephone on his desk, before taking the small metal case with one capsule remaining, and pocketing it.  

Thompson pushed the chair in and turned around, opening the door, and paused. "Again, you are not to leave. If you do so, we _will _find you. In twenty-four hours, we will return for your extraction."

Thompson stepped through the door, and his two companions soon followed suit. Again, Cook was alone. He blinked his eyes, not entirely sure what had just happened. For a moment, it occurred to him that he might have imagined the whole incident. 

He was almost firmly convinced that it was all an illusion until he felt his hand against something cold a smooth. Cook turned to see an empty glass, and the bottle of cognac. He sighed.

It had happened. Cook poured himself another glass, and was about to consume it when he recalled what Thompson had said.

He set the glass down, and slowly reached to his phone, lifting the receiver. Biting down on his tongue, he slowly punched in a number and put the receiver to his ear. The line rang twice, and a voice spoke at the other end.

"This is Nathan Cook, I need to speak to Mr. Zarcone." he asked, and waited. "Alexander? It's Nathan. Yes, it's good to hear from you too. Listen, I need your help. Something's...come up, and I'm going to be gone for a long time. Someone has to take care of the company, and you're the only person I can trust. Listen, I'm going to hang up, and call my lawyer, and he's going to call you with an offer to purchase all my holding's in the company...I know, just listen to me, I need you to do this..."

Outside the building, the three Agents exited the same way they had entered, walking down the steps in a strangely artificial manner. It was still well into the autumn night, though the moon was beginning to set. In the darkness, Thompson spoke out.

"Contact Zion. Inform them that we have selected a target for extraction," he said to Johnson.

Johnson nodded. "They will need to mobilize a team to evacuate him." 

The three approached their BMW M5, Jackson circled around to the driver's side, and the three opened the doors in near synchronization, and entered the vehicle. Johnson sat in the back, his hand to his earpiece, and seemed to become dormant, as he began to communicate with the Real. 

Jackson produced the vehicle's ignition key and the vehicle came to life. Thompson looked over the back of his seat at Johnson, still lying dormant, accessing the various channels of communication that were needed to reach Zion from the Matrix.

Once Zion's hand was confirmed, he knew it would be time to mobilize the Command Staff, 'Team D'. 

**           IV**

The sun continued to rise over Union Plaza, though the moon still dominated the night sky. Outside their room, the corridor that was lined with the doors leading to the office room remained empty for several hours, until two security guards began their early-morning rounds, and one of the office doors opened.

Upon hearing the door open, one of the security guards turned his head and clicked his heals together, saluting. "Sir! Good morning, Warrant Officer Pienaar!"

Charles Pienaar nodded and yawned a greeting at the guard. "Nice to see you boys are up early as well." His attention was turned to the other doors that lined the corridor. "Anyone else awake?" he asked.

The guard checked his watch. "Not at this hour, sir."

Charles nodded his head. "Of course. Thank you."

The guard saluted once more and continued on his assignment. Pienaar stepped out of his room, stretched his arms upwards, and turned to the door to his immediate right. He approached the door and was about to knock on it when the door swung open, and Charles' identical twin, Daniel, appeared in the doorway.

"I'm awake, I'm awake!" the other yelled out, fumbling for his spectacles. "Sorry about being late," he mumbled sheepishly. 

The other Pienaar brother cleared his throat with a cough. "Good morning, _Officer_ Pienaar!" he announced, with an exaggeratedly deep voice.

Daniel responded with his own voice, suspiciously sounding like the actor James Earl Jones. "Good morning to _you_, _Officer _Pienaar." 

"How are you this fine October morning?"

"Quite well, thank you! Did you sleep well, _Officer _Pienaar?"

"I believe I slept in a _most satisfactory manner_." 

"That is _wonderful_ to hear." 

"And you, _Officer _Pienaar?"

"I can say with much confidence that I _too _slept very well!"

"Really? That is very good to hear!"

"Why, thank you, _Officer_ Pienaar!" He turned his head slightly. "Tell me, _Officer _Pienaar, would you enjoy some coffee this morning?"

"I believe I _would_, _Officer _Pienaar!"

"Then, please join me for a cup of freshly brewed!"

"Why, I believe I will accept that offer, _Officer _Pienaar!"

"Then let us go!"

The two nodded, and looked at the other doors. "So..." Daniel commented, in a normal tone of voice.

"You want go and wake everyone else up?" 

Daniel checked his watch. "I think that would piss the rest of them off, at this hour."

Charles nodded. "Probably."

Daniel gave a thoughtful expression. "Let's roll."

The two exchanged evil grins.

The corridor was soon dominated by the loud voices of irritated persons whom had been woken up by the Pienaar's intricate process of knocking on the office doors just loud enough to stir the occupants from their slumber, then barge into the room, in their deep falsettos, and greet the person or persons inside.

In the office/converted sleeping-quarters of the Lieutenant Colonel, Karen Springfield lay on the couch/converted bed, dressed in her undergarments, with a blanket to offer both warmth and retain her modesty.

The gentle rapping could be heard on the door, but Springfield, severely doped up by Akasi's painkillers, continued to slumber, shifting her position on the couch. The door to the room shifted, but did not open: Karen Springfield possessed the insight to lock her door, as she had done the night before.

Whenthe Pienaar Brother on the other side realized the door was locked, he shrugged and moved on to greater things.

For another half-hours, Springfield continued to enjoy uninterrupted slumber, as shown by the broad smile of contentment on her face. This expression, however, did not last, as it ceased when the small mobile phone set on the coffee table next to her couch began to ring, playing the song 'Because the Night' by Bruce Springsteen.

The phone continued playing that song, reaching the second refrain, when Karen groped around coffee table, feeling for her phone, cursing under her breath.

"Dammit...If this isn't Kofi Annan himself, I'm hanging up," she mumbled into the phone.

On the other end, she heard a tinny voice speak at brief intervals. She blinked, pushing her orange bangs from her face. Between a third and half of the words, but to the best of her knowledge, they sounded like important instructions. She slowly sat up on the couch, one side of her head's hair flattened from sleeping on it. She yawned and nodded..

"Fine, you got my attention. I'm awake. Just as long as you're not Thompson."

She paused, and the tinny voice on the other end identified himself. Springfield hurled the phone against the door, and it bounced off, the tinny voice continuing in intervals. 

"That son of a bitch..." she mumbled, lying back down on her couch.

On the other end, Agent Thompson continued with his instructions, as Agent Jackson drove the BMW M5 drove down the street, which was far more congested during when they had passed through it before. 

"Colonel Springfield," he repeated, more insistently. "Colonel! Are you there?" he demanded, awkwardly. He looked at Agent Jackson, somewhat indignantly, and continued in his monotone voice. "Colonel Springfield!"

"All right, all right, I'm here, goddamn it!" the voice responded. "Don't have a heart attack, _Tommy_."

Jackson gave his companion a short look, before returning his eyes to the road. Springfield continued. "Oh yeah, I forgot...you need to have a heart, before you can have an attack." She gave a short laugh. "All right, what the hell you guys want?"

Thompson did not _want _anything. "We are returning. You are to assemble a minimal team for a light escort assignment in twenty-three hours and ten minutes. I will provide further details when we arrive."

"Huh...what? Wait...a mission. You're talking about a _mission _aren't you?"

Thompson turned to Jackson again, then looked back at the phone between the seats. "Yes."

"...great. Just great. Fine, fine! We'll do it! You could have given us a little warning...you want me to get the rest of Team D, right?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Light guard duty? That it?"

"Yes."

"Christ, it's like talking to a goddamn computer..." she mumbled, failing to realize that was more or less what she was doing. "Okay, okay, I'll do it. You'd better be back here soon and explain the details, unless you want me to pull a mission plan out of my ass."

"That won't be necessary." Before Springfield could speak further, he pressed a key, disconnecting the line. 

"I have little confidence in her," Jackson commented, not taking his eyes from the road.

Before Thompson could respond on how Jackson would probably not gain any confidence the humans after this mission, Johnson spoke out from behind. "Zion has responded. A Hovercraft and its crew will perform the extraction. _You_ are to meet them in twenty hours."

For a moment, Thompson was confused. It did not seem correct for Johnson to tell him "you" rather than "we".

Johnson quickly explained. "The humans have decided the circumstances of a rendezvous. One human will meet with one of us at a location that will be revealed later."

Thompson considered this for a moment. His cognitive processes toyed with a 'worse-case scenario': a human ambush. However, Thompson's nature firmly convinced him he had little, if anything to fear from anything Zion's leaders could assemble at this time. 

"So, it has been agreed upon," he said finally. 

Finally, something would be accomplished. It irritated Thompson that it had taken so long. 

**           V**

"Listen, people, this vacation is _now over_, get it?"

In Union Plaza's cafeteria, the various members of the Command Staff looked up from their breakfast meals, primarily scrambled eggs, French toast, and various fruits, up a Colonel Springfield. She rushed into the cafeteria, zipping up her blue-and-black jumpsuit over her undergarments. 

"What do you mean?" Charles Pienaar asked, with a mouthful of eggs. 

"Just got a call from the boss," she explained as she approached the table. She gave the shoulder of Lieutenant Arisaka, who was sleeping with her hands around a coffee cup, a sharp shake. "Time to earn your pay, Izumi."

Next to Arisaka, Corporal Enfield plunged face-first into her plate of orange-slices. Springfield stared at her, cocking an eyebrow. "Christ, EE, what you do last night?" 

Arisaka yawned. "_Halo_. Lots and lots of _Halo_."

"You mean that videogame?"

"_Hai_, Commander."

Springfield rubbed her eyes. "God, I'm commanding a platoon of adolescents. You'd think that with the nature of our work, you'd want _less _violence during your free time." She turned to the open counter, beyond which the kitchen staff was busy scurrying about. "Hey! Coffee over here, black!"

"You want sugar with that?" one of them, the young Nabiki, asked.

"It's not for me, it's for EE."

"Coming up!"

"So," Mosin asked, stuffing his mouth with a piece of toast, "We get to...do work?"

She nodded. "The Agents say they want us for some low-level guard duty. Some sort of transaction between them and another party." She sat down next to Enfield. "Can I get a omelet over here?" 

Ms. Myers appeared from behind the counter. "Coming up, Commander."

Springfield nodded and turned to her comrades. "Information is a little sketchy. We'll know more later, hopefully." Ms. Myers appeared from a door leading into the kitchen and set down a plate of cheese-and-egg omelets, along with a set of eating utensils. Springfield promptly attacked it with a fork.

Daniel Pienaar looked across the table. "Out of curiosity, when is later?"

"I'm guessing now," Arisaka commented grimly, pointing her coffee cup at the entrance to the cafeteria.

Springfield looked up, with a mouthful of egg. "Christ. Them again..."

Through the swinging doors, Agents Thompson, Jackson, and Johnson rigidly entered the cafeteria, standing in a small triangle with Agent Thompson at the vertex. He slowly surveyed the entire cafeteria, whose occupants became very still. At the table where the six members of the Command Staff sat, Nabiki stood very still, a coffee pot in her hand. 

He spoke. "We are nearly upon the first extraction." 

"In approximately twenty-two hours, we will leave to escort the target to a designated point," Johnson continued.

"You will guard the transaction, against any unforeseen occurrences."

"If all goes as planned, the target will be evacuated by the human crew sent by Zion," Thompson concluded. 

The three turned around and exited the cafeteria just as they had entered, though not before Thompson looked over his shoulder and, in his usual cold fashion, mumbled "Prepare yourselves," before leaving. Nabiki, and the others, immediately relaxed, some of them continuing to eat. 

"What a bunch of stuck-up assholes," Springfield snapped as she stuffed a piece of French bread into her mouth.

"Shouldn't we...go, or something?" Mosin asked.

"Go where? They _still _didn't tell us anything," Daniel explained, before taking a deep sip of coffee. 

Springfield reached over and pulled Enfield's head out of the bowl. Her face was decorated with orange juice and pulp. "I'm guessing we'd better get used to this." 

Still, the members of the Command Staff realized that there was work to be done, and after a long, relaxing breakfast, Springfield took it upon herself, as the highest-ranking UN officer in Union Plaza, to issue orders.

"All right, here's how it's going to work. Me and Arisaka..."

"That's 'Arisaka and I', Commander."

"Shut up, Pienaar. Me and Arisaka will go prepare the armory. Rifles, pistols, grenades, normal stuff." She pointed her finger at two others. "Mosin and Enfield, I want you to go and check out our ride in the basement."

"Affirmative, Comrade Colonel," Mosin chirped.

"Pienaar Brothers? I want you to handle the logistics and records. We work for the UN, and in this organization, we can't take a piss without turning in a report, or we catch hell."

The Pienaar twins exchanged glances and one shrugged. 

"And that should do the trick," Springfield concluded. "All right, Team D, let's move!"

They quickly dispersed in pairs, heading for the elevators and stairway. Enfield whispered to Mosin, "Doesn't this seem a little simple to you?"

He shrugged. "Given that we have no idea what we're doing, not really." 

One floor beneath them, in the Main Lobby, the three Agents stood in their usual triangular formation. Agent Thompson stared directly down the Lobby, at the entrance. "We cannot act until the humans contact us."

"Do you believe they will be prompt?" Johnson asked, not looking at Thompson.

"Never trust a human to be punctual," Jackson warned his counterparts. 

The three continued staring at the security checkpoint at the entrance. They knew it was now time to wait.

**           VI**

Across the East River, on the opposite side of land where Union Plaza resided, one could find a less urbanized area, where the concrete catacombs gave way to small, low-density housing and local businesses. In this area, one could still find the same smaller shops as the city, as well as a similar share of derelict housing, albeit much less expansive.  

This area was known as 'Paramus', and while not technically part of the same city, it was widely regarded as being a section of the same megalopolis. 

In Paramus, there was a ranch-style house that had been foreclosed by the banks some time ago. This home, as it had once been, was primarily devoid of furniture, with the exception of a small wooden table in the den that was surrounded by three chairs.

On the center of the table rested an older-style rotating dial phone. This model phone had long been rendered obsolete by the touch-tone models, though a few still existed. 

That afternoon, the phone did something it had not done in some time. 

It rang.

As the shrilling ring cut through the silence, startling the various rodents and insects that made their home in the table, brief flashes of greenish light were available. After a few moments, three human-like forms materialized from the light, standing around the small table. 

Their figures solidified, and one could see that there now stood a woman and two men. The woman and the first man were both black, at least, that was the image projected by their 'shells', though being human, the term 'shell' might be more accurately replaced by 'body' or 'memory'. The final man had a 'memory' that presented himself as a Chinese male. All three wore sunglasses, and one man was completely bald. 

The light vanished, and the woman reached forward and lifted the receiver of the phone.

"Sparks, we're in." 

"Good," the voice on the other end responded. "I was afraid the broadcasting equipment might not be working properly after all this time. Anyway, the package has been sent. All you need to do is communicate to the Agents directly."

She nodded and set down the receiver, hanging up. She turned to her companion, the man with the 'memory' of a black male. "I guess we should call them?" 

The bald man nodded his head, though she could tell he felt something against this. Perhaps resentment. Or perhaps it was simply reluctance.

She reached into her pocket and produced a small cellular phone, a Samsung n270 model, and pressed a catch, letting it expand open in her hand. She stared down at the phone.

"Perhaps we should wait a little longer," the man with a full head of black hair warned. 

She looked at him and nodded. The three each pulled back a chair and sat down. Upon sitting, the man with hair reached into his pocket and produced his weapon, a SIG-Sauer P229 9mm Handgun, from a holster underneath his black trench coat. He pulled back the slide, inspecting the weapon.

The woman looked at him and smiled. "Still doing that, aren't you?"

He smiled back. "You never know. I warned you of that before."

"The more things change," the bald man said calmly. "The more they stay the same." 

The package, at the time, was making its way through the city, in the back of a Federal Express delivery van, which slowly came to a stop in front of Union Plaza. The vehicle door slid open, and a uniformed postal employee stepped out. He circled the van, checked his clipboard, and opened the van doors. After a brief search, he took out a single cardboard envelope and passed through the glass doors, stepping up to the security checkpoint. 

The three Agents were still standing in their positions, as the Federal Express employee was stopped at the checkpoint. 

"Just here for a delivery," he explained. He looked at the envelope. "For a…Thompson."

"I'm afraid I'll need to ask my superior. Please remove any metal objects you may have on your person and deposit them in this tray, then step through the scanner," a blue-clad security guard calmly asked, holding a plastic tray.

The FedEx employee frowned. "I just need to..."

The guard pulled out his radio and pressed the switch. "Corporal Cohen, there's someone..." He stopped to see Agent Thompson standing behind him, catching him off guard, so that he dropped his radio.

"You Thompson?" the deliveryman asked.

Thompson gave a slight nod, and the deliveryman handed him the envelope. Thompson took it from him and tore the cord on the envelope free, opening it. With Agent Jackson and Johnson slowly approaching him from behind, Thompson turned the envelope upside-down, slowly turning so that he was facing parallel to the security scanners.

The envelope's contents, a single Samsung n270 cellular phone, emptied into his hand. Thompson looked at the device, held awkwardly in his wrinkled, muscular right hand, then looked at Johnson and Jackson, approaching him to his right. 

"It's a signal," Johnson announced.

"From the freedminds," Jackson agreed.

Thompson continued nodding wordlessly, the cell phone slowly rotating in his hand. Time passed, perhaps minutes, perhaps more, as they waited. Time had little meaning to the Agents at the moment. 

Finally, it rang. Thompson quickly hit the switch and it popped open, than awkwardly put it to his ear.

"Is this Agent Thompson?" a voice asked.

Thompson slowly looked at his counterparts, then turned back. "Yes."

The voice continued, and Thompson immediately recognized the speaker on the other end: Maureen Evans, also known as the Niobe, a Zionist Captain. Through his earpiece, he wordlessly confirmed that she had been assigned to them through his contact in Zion, as well as the rest of the crew of the Zionist Hovercraft _Logos II_. They had last met some time ago, when she had knock him out of an aircraft during an operation to transport the Zionist Leigh Whannel, also known as Axel. 

The conversation lasted less only a dozen seconds at most, and consisted solely of Ms. Evans speaking and him listening. When the conversation ended, Thompson closed the phone and slipped it into his pocket. 

Jackson looked at him. "Well?"

"The humans have requested to meet me alone to discuss the operation in person."

Jackson turned to Johnson and nodded. The later had been correct earlier. 

Thompson turned towards the entrance. He realized what needed to be done. "I must leave now," he said dryly.

Johnson and Jackson nodded. They understood. Cook needed to be monitored, to make sure that the Zionists did not contact him preemptively. The Zionists needed to be located, discreetly, as a precaution. Countless other things remained. He turned back to them. "Make sure the Command Staff is ready. I will contact you in time."

The spun around once more and passed through one of the security scanners. As he passed, one of security guards reached down for his radio. The radio was still set to the frequency of Corporal Cohen.

He knew that even though the other two Agents were leaving, they could probably hear him. Regardless, he felt he had a duty to do, as requested by the commander of the Security Staff. "Corporal Cohen," he whispered into the radio. "Corporal? Can you hear me, over?"

He pressed the switch to hear distorted yelling coming through the radio's small speaker. Underneath the screaming, he heard Cohen's voice. "Affirmative, this is Cohen. Is this important, because I've got a little bit of a crisis on my hands, over."

Literally beneath the lobby where the security guards at the checkpoint stood, albeit separated by several layers of reinforced concrete and steel, lay the B1 Level of Union Plaza. The B1 Level, with a floor-plan larger than that of the above-ground levels, was divided into the Monitoring Level and Security Personnel Offices and Quarters, together which made the Security Level, and access to the parking garage. 

Near the doors that led to the underground garage, Corporal Cohen stood in the auxiliary locker room, separated from the Security Team's lockers by a concrete wall, along with Lt. Colonel Springfield and Lieutenant Arisaka. This was the job that he greatly disliked.

"Listen, Joseph, I appreciate the warning but I really need to get back to you, over..." He mumbled into his radio, before switching it off. With the Commander of Union Plaza screaming at him angrily, he did not wanted to be bothered by the guards at the checkpoint.

"…I mean, honestly, _how the hell do they expect us to do our fucking jobs without guns_!" she screamed angrily, before slamming a locker shut next to Arisaka. The locker door bounced back open, nearly striking Arisaka on the way back. "I mean, for Christ sakes, even _Peacekeepers _get guns! PEACKEEPERS!" 

"I'm sorry, Colonel Springfield...this really isn't my department..." he paused nervously and looked at the lockers. Inside them were medical packs, body armor, various tools but, interestingly enough, no guns. The rest of the equipment, however, was top-of-the-line high-quality, mostly from Germany and Switzerland. "You'd have to speak to the supply officers about..."

"WHAT SUPPLY OFFICERS?" Springfield demanded. "This isn't a freakin' army here!" She was dressed in her own suit of body armor, consisting primarily of various pieces of Kevlar material around her shins, arms, and the rest of her limbs, and larger plates of a specialized titanium-aluminum compound, fastened to a loose black boiler suit she wore over her formfitting jumpsuit. Arisaka was dressed similarly, and was fastening her boots. "What am I supposed to do? Hit the enemy with my helmet?" she asked, waving her specialized steel helmet around for dramatic effect.

Cohen frowned even more. "Didn't the officers who stormed that restaurant yesterday have guns?"

"Of course they did!" Springfield snapped back. "So let me ask this: why the _hell _do _they_, the Security Staff, have _guns_, and _we_, their _commanders_, do not?" She sat down exasperated on a wooden bench in front of the lockers. "Christ, they were better prepared at the UN."

"Commander, maybe he can solve our problem..." Arisaka hinted quietly. Springfield turned to her and saw the now-familiar shape of Agent Jackson standing in the doorway, aloof as usual.

_At least it's not that dick Thompson_. "Finally, you guys can make yourself useful." She stood up, stormed over to him, and grabbed him by the cufflink, pulling him in her direction. He did not budge. She hissed at him. "We need firepower for the mission."

He looked at her, almost curiously.

"Guns. We need guns," Springfield elaborated, more than a little annoyed. "You know, they're those metal things that fire little metal things at high speeds."

In a swift motion, Jackson reached underneath his blazer, and from his holster, produced his massive IMI Desert Eagle. After briefly looking at it, he set it in Springfield's gloved hand.

As if to humor him, Springfield held the polished black 0.50AE semi-automatic pistol in her hand, inspecting it. After her 'inspection', she pulled back the slide and jammed it into Jackson's chest. He took the gun from her and returned it into his holster. 

"Nice gun. I'll keep it in mind next time I want to go elephant hunting." She gestured to the various open lockers. "Materialize some firepower in those lockers," she ordered him.

Jackson cocked his head slightly, his eyebrows coming together.

"You heard me! We need guns for this mission! And someone forgot to get those guns! Now do it!"

Jackson looked at the lockers, then back at an angry Springfield. "I cannot do that."

"What the hell do you mean, 'I can't do that'?" she demanded.

"With that kind of attitude," Arisaka mumbled before snickering loudly. 

"I cannot simply materialize matter at command," he responded, slightly angered. "I do not possess the authority to satisfy you."

Springfield looked at him, her face twisted into what he considered a very odd expression, even for a human. Her lips in particular were in such a shape that he could not complete decide whether she was frowning or about to scream loudly.

From behind Springfield, Arisaka emitted her low snicker. 

The Colonel finally responded. "...you did it before." 

Jackson responded. "That was in the Construct."

Springfield paused. She looked at Arisaka behind her, who was fiddling absently with her body armor, and then back at Jackson. Even the Program could tell there was a dangerous look in her eyes.

She spoke very slowly, in a very low voice. "Can we take weapons out of the Construct?" she asked quietly.

He looked at her through his sunglasses in his usual manner. "Yes, you can."

The next thing she did surprised him, though it shouldn't have. She reached forward and grabbed him by the tie, in a single swift motion, pulling him down towards her. "Then let's do that, _Agent _Jackson."

He looked at her with that same undecipherable expression. "Very well." 

The three took the short walk to the 'door that leads to nowhere' and entered the void that was the Construct. It took a few moments for the two humans to re-orientate themselves with the sheer gravity of the Construct's appearance to them, but it wasn't long before Springfield spoke again.

_At least there could be a floor_. "All right, Jackson. Do it."

Jackson gave her the same look, then turned as though he had seen something in the distance. He set a finger to his earpiece, and a faint sound of rushing air could be heard.

Springfield let out a startled gasp as two indefinitely long steel racks raced by, seeming out of nowhere, to her left and right. They rushed past her, like train cars, until they came to an abrupt stop.

Jackson turned back to her. "Is this what you requested?"

She was about to snap back at him for what seemed like to her to be a cruel joke, but stopped when she saw the contents of the metal racks. 

_Guns. Lots and lots of guns._

She licked her lips and reached forward, taking a handgun from the rack and inspecting it. A few moments inspection and she was convinced that it was indeed real, or at least as real as anything was in this universe.

She looked down the rack, seeing the cascade of metal disappearing in the 'horizon'.

Jackson cocked his head slightly. "You are satisfied?"

Arisaka turned to him and put a finger before her lips. "_Shhh!_" she warned. "Don't interrupt something this beautiful, Jackson-sama." Again she resumed her snickering. 

He turned around and approached the door. "Prepare yourself for the assignment," he ordered bluntly. 

"Yeah, whatever," Springfield mumbled, in considerably better spirits. She slapped her hands together as Jackson opened the door and exited the Construct, and turned to Arisaka. "How long do you think this'll last?"

Lieutenant Arisaka shrugged, honestly not sure. 

Springfield smirked and returned the handgun to its chamber. "In that case, take whatever you need, and plenty of ammunition. Equip for your life, not just the mission."

Arisaka looked at her. "Agent Thompson said that this was only a light guard assignment." 

"And you really trust him?"

Arisaka opened her mouth as though she was going to respond, but did not. Instead, she pressed her hand against her forehead, pushing aside the hair that normally blocked one of her eyes. She smiled broadly. "_Hai_, _Okashira._ I trust him." She continued with her typical smirking.

"But that," she said with a grim smile, "Does not mean _you_ should, Springfield-san." 

**Author's Notes: **

Hello again! I'm a little displeased with the fluidity of this one, not to mention the delays in its delivery. Still, I'm going to keep this on! Morpheus, Niobe, and more in the next chapter!


	8. Agreement

**The Matrix: Deliverance **

**Segment 7 - Agreement**

She made no pretense at being a Peacekeeper. She knew, in the recesses of memory, that she had been a Peacekeeper some time in the past, with all that the title implied. She felt she had been a Peacekeeper in the sense she had been a soldier under the command of the United Nations Secretariat, but she had more than once questioned if that, or anything, could truly make a soldier a Peacekeeper.

She knew with confidence that she had been at least a soldier, and still was in most respects, though in truth, anyone could be a soldier, if given a weapon, a little training, and they were obedient enough. She considered herself a _professional _soldier, someone who fought for a living, and she had a rank to prove it: Lieutenant Colonel.

Karen Springfield reached forward into the pile of weaponry she had deposited before her locker from the Construct, and took dug around for a bit until she found what she was looking for: a Beretta 92F semi-automatic pistol. It was a popular handgun that fired 9mm Parabellum ammunition, and this one already had a noise suppressor screwed onto the muzzle.

She slid it into the underarm holster of her body armor and, after a short search in the pile, found a second pistol, identical to the first, and set it in the other underarm holster. Another search yielded twelve 15-round magazines for the two pistols, which she secured to the various ammunition holders on the breastplate. 

When she was done with that, she pushed aside some of the smaller weapons, a Heckler & Koch MP5k, a Glock 18c, and a SIG-Sauer P220, to reveal a larger, Colt M4A1 rifle, with a scope mounted on the carrying handle. She lifted the assault carbine up and checked the receiver, then hooked it to her body armor by the handle. A quick search revealed ten large 30-round magazines of 5.56x45mm NATO Ammunition, which she latched onto her belt. 

The combination of armor, weapons, ammunition, and other equipment weighed her down considerably, but Springfield prided herself on being in excellent physical condition. 

Her concentration was shattered, as usual, by Lieutenant Arisaka's voice. "And here are the weapons of death and destruction..." she mumbled quietly, then began to chuckle. 

"Well...that's our job..." Springfield said apathetically, securing two smoke grenades onto her belt. "What you're not using in this mission, put in your locker. Hopefully, those guns in the Construct will still be there next time." She sighed. "Looks like we have to manage our supplies ourselves." 

Arisaka nodded, and for a moment, seemed to become more serious. "Uh…_Okashira_..." she began quietly.

Springfield turned to Arisaka, reasoning she was the only _okashira_, or 'commander' present, not to mention the only other person. "What is it, Izumi?"

She bit down on her lip. "Nothing, Springfield-san."

On the other side of the basement, Lieutenant Mosin and Corporal Enfield walked in the vehicle garage, between two rows of vehicles. They were the UN SUVs, polished to a high black-sheen, modified with four-centimeter thick armor plating and large 15.5mm FN BRG Machineguns. Many of them had never been used, save the short operation to detain the Merovingian. 

"This must have set the United Nations back a lot," Mosin whistled. "We'll only need one of these for the mission."

Enfield nodded in agreement. "That should do," she said in agreement, before yawning loudly. 

"You should probably get some more sleep, ma'am," a voice said from behind them. The two turned to see two feet sticking out from beneath one of the vehicles.

_Didn't see that before_. "Excuse me?"

Two gloved hands reached out from under the vehicle, and he pulled himself out. It was a man in this thirties, clad in gray overalls, with the same ID card that all normal workers in Union Plaza, sans the Agents, wore. 

He produced a dirty rag and began wiping some off some of the grease on his hands. "Sorry, I should have introduced myself. 'Name's Gray Richards. Like this color." He pointed at his overalls with a grease-slicked hand. "I'm part of the Maintenance Staff, the part that works outside the kitchen. And I suppose you two are from the Command Staff, right?"

Mosin nodded, gesturing to himself, then Enfield. "Lieutenant Mosin, Corporal Enfield." 

"So, you're our technician?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah, I'm your guy. We also double as the building janitors. Not much fun, but the pay is very, _very _good." He stuffed the rag into his overall's largest pocket. "The only reason you guys would be down here are these things, am I right?" he asked, looking at the SUVs. "If so, they're all ready."

Enfield blinked. "Hey...where are the rest of you chaps? You can't be the only one..."

Richards looked to his side nervously and lowered his voice. "All right, I suppose I might as well come clean. The truth is, we haven't had much work, and unlike those girls in the kitchen, most of us go pretty unnoticed. When we're not needed for repairs, we typically just stay here to do the cleaning, then leave." He shrugged sheepishly. "It's not as though we're not willing to work...we are, it's just we don't see much of a reason to hang around, waiting for something."

Enfield smiled, understanding. "That's okay. Not your fault. We'll give you blokes something to do later."

Richard nodded and reached into his pocket. "How many vehicles will you need?"

"One should be fine," he explained. 

The mechanic nodded and threw him a small key. "Here you go, sir." He smiled. "You give those guys hell...or whatever IT IS you do..."

He bowed his head politely and returned to his work, leaving Enfield and Mosin to themselves. 

"…well, we got a car," he commented. "I wonder if the rest are doing as well as we are?"

Enfield took the key from Mosin's hand and pressed down on the small switch on it. One of the vehicles' headlights flashed briefly, and it emitted a short chirp. The two turned to the vehicle and nodded. The small radio hooked to Mosin's belt emitted a similar beep. 

The Lieutenant reached down and took the radio from his belt. "Mosin here."

On the other end, Lt. Colonel Springfield snapped several instructions to her subordinates. "Yes, Comrade Colonel," he responded smartly. "Of course. We'll be there shortly." 

He flipped the switch off, and turned to Enfield. "Let's go, EE. Time to go pick up the guns."

She sighed. "So, we're really going through with this, aren't we?" she muttered, hitting the switch again. The SUV's doors unlocked. "There's no going back."

Mosin shook his head. "No, there isn't, I suppose."

"The Pienaar Brothers are going to need to know about the car for their logistics report." She gestured to his radio. "You'd better call them now."

           **II**

"You'd better call them now," the bald man, Hannibal Lee, also known as the Zionist Former-Captain Morpheus, commented from the back of the maroon Pontiac Firebird muscle car, as it drove down Broadway Avenue.  

Maureen Evans, also known as the Zionist Captain Niobe, nodded from behind the steering wheel. "Ghost, care to do the honors?"

Gar Ming, also known as the Zionist Crewman Ghost, sighed quietly and reached into his coat pocket and produced a Samsung n270 cellular phone, and rapidly punched in a number. "Where do you want to meet him?" he asked.

"Somewhere where he can't do that anything violent," she mumbled. 

"Somewhere public?" Ghost asked.

"Probably for the better."

Behind them, Morpheus emitted a short, irritated sounding sigh. Niobe groaned loudly and titled her head slightly. "What's the matter, Morpheus?"

The bald man smiled bitterly. "You really are going to go through with this? To meet, and negotiate, with an Agent?"

Niobe sighed in a similar fashion to how Morpheus had, but louder. "You know the drill. Orders are orders. We're soldiers. The Council says jump, we jump."

"And if they say talk with our enemies, we talk," Ghost added.

"So we're going to allow the Council to send us to our deaths?"

"That's what they always do. We're freedminds," Niobe snapped. "_It's our fucking jobs_."

"We've already discussed this," Ghost mumbled, still holding the phone in his hand. 

"Then why are we still doing this?" Morpheus demanded.

"Morpheus, we already went over this..."

"Are you really going to _trust _an _Agent_? Have we already forgotten _Smith_?"

"Morpheus, would you just _drop_…" Niobe began as she quickly swung the wheel around, missing another vehicle by only a few centimeters. "...you know what? I'm _really damn tired of this_. Ghost!"

Ghost, who had been tightly holding onto the dashboard after the sudden maneuver, turned to Niobe.

"Call Thompson. Tell him to meet us in..." she checked her watch. "One hour, at the Plaza Hotel. That leaves plenty of time to pick up Cook and free him."

Morpheus mumbled something under his breath.

"And guess what, _Morphy_...you get to be the one who meets with him."

Morpheus removed his thin sunglasses. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. As your captain and commanding officer, I'm saying you're going to meet him." She looked back at him through the rear-view mirror. "Got it?"

He sighed. "Very well."

           **III**

They gathered in the lockers, having collected whatever they needed: various guns, tools, grenades, and so forth. 

Mosin closed the straps on his Kevlar vest and reached into his pocket, producing a small piece of fabric, a black cap. He set it over his head. 

Enfield spotted him. "What's the _yarmulka_ for?" 

He shrugged. "I'm not a religious man, but in combat, I'll take all the help I can get."

Enfield cocked and eyebrow, and turned, to see Springfield, standing in full armor, loaded with weaponry, in the corner. The Lieutenant Colonel crossed herself quickly, nodded her head, and secured the chinstrap of her helmet.

Charles Pienaar shook his head sadly. "You really think _your_ God is on _our_ side?"

Springfield shrugged. "Hell, it can't hurt."

From her own corner, Arisaka emitted a brief snicker. "Ours is not a forgiving God." 

"Well, we're quite a crew," Enfield added. "Two Catholics, myself included, two Atheists, a Jew, and a follower of Shinto."

"Welcome to the United Nations, Comrades," Mosin joked as he placed his helmet over the cap and tightened the chinstrap. 

"Hear, hear," piped Daniel Pienaar, as he cocked his MP5 with a quick slap to the barrel. "You know, I don't really see the need to worry. We're just overseeing some transfer, right? It's not like this is an assault mission or something."

"We're worrying," Arisaka commented softly, "Because the _Okashira_ doesn't trust Thompson-sama." She shifted her head, making sure her long dark hair was underneath her body armor, before securing her helmet.

"Don't start, Izumi," Springfield mumbled. "It's not paranoia..."

"But it is, Commander," Enfield piped. "You're more afraid of Thompson than you are of those 'freedmind' blokes." 

"...fine, maybe it is," Springfield admitted. "But who's the commanding officer, here?"

"You are."

"That's right. And paranoia goes _down _the chain of command...or something like that."

There was short pause, interrupted only as Mosin clicked the receiver of his AN-94 assault rifle. "...that really made no sense."

"Yeah, I know. So just shut up and do what I say," Springfield ordered sternly as she checked the magazine fitted into her M4. 

           **IV**

"Thompson?"

The Program Thompson reached into his pocket and produced the Samsung n270 phone, hitting the switch to pop it open. Once again, he found himself driving down the street, as the sun was already beginning to set, in the black BMW M5. 

He thought about a response, though the best he could come up with was a short "Yes."

"Just shut up and do what I say," the voice admonished. It was Maureen Evans, once more. He listened carefully to Niobe. "You listening?"

"Yes," he repeated, coming to a stop at a red light.

"Go to the Plaza Hotel. In the lobby, take the first of the two new lifts, the ones with the glass walls. Head to the Sky Bar. You got it?"

As far as Thompson was concerned, that was a stupid question. The red light turned green, and he continued moving. "Yes."

"Oh, and one last thing Agent Thompson…" There was a pause. "No hard feelings about me kicking your ass out of that airplane, all right?"

Agent Thompson immediately struck a button on the phone, hanging up, and returned it to his blazer pocket. His cognitive processes developed a familiar idea: _humans are insufferable._

It took him ten minutes to reach to the Plaza Hotel. He parked his car in the fire lane, ignoring a hotel valet who came up to him, asking he move his vehicles. Instead, his attention was addressed upwards: as he exited his vehicle, he looked up at the third window from the left on the twenty-second floor. 

Hiding there was a Freedmind. He could tell. 

He entered the hotel lobby, and just as he turned towards the elevators, one of them emitted a ring, and the doors opened. He entered it, and struck the button for the so-called 'Sky-Bar', a high-altitude lounge that served beverages to wealthiest patrons in the city. 

As he expected, the elevator did not stop as it left the lobby, and after a few moments, the clear glass walls revealed the evening sky and the skyline against it. Thompson stared out through the glass, and soon enough, the cellular phone in his pocket rang once more. Having it there was starting to irritate him. 

"Thompson?" a voice asked. It was another one, that of an intellectual, one he did not recognize immediately. Again, that irritated him. 

"Yes." 

"Good," the voice said, with a slightly sarcastic tone. "I see you've taken us seriously."

"Yes."

"Now, I want you to turn to your right."

With level of irritation, one of the few emotions he felt, steadily increasing, Thompson slowly shifted to his right. Next to the elevator he rode he could see another identical elevator car, moving with him. Through the glass, he spotted a bald man dressed in a violet vest, tie, and a black trench coat. The man wore small sunglasses, and smiled at him, revealing a gap between his white teeth.

Morpheus. The one Thompson had fought on the Highway. 

Thompson nearly crushed the cellular phone in his grip. 

"Remember me, Thompson?" the voice asked, as Morpheus' lips moved. 

"Yes, I do."

Morpheus nodded, and the smile vanished. "Let's be clear about one thing: I don't like you, Thompson, and you don't like me." He casually brushed his coat aside to reveal an MP5k sub-machinegun strapped to his belt. Agent Thompson wasn't concerned, nor was he amused: if Morpheus decided to fire, he would simply dodge the bullets, then shoot him in return. Or perhaps he would leap across the small gap between the elevator cars and physically rip Morpheus apart. 

"That is correct."

"But that not withstanding, fate has made it so that we will have to work together from now on."

"That is also correct." Judging by Morpheus' expression, Thompson's monotone repetitions were beginning to irritate _him _in return.

"And against my better judgment, I'm convinced that even you _Machines_ are interested in maintaining this peace. With that in mind..."

The two elevators came to a stop at the Sky Bar, within a second of one another, and the doors opened. At the entrance to Thompson's elevator stood the familiar figure of Captain Niobe, as he had expected. In her hand, she held a Beretta 9000-series pistol, smaller than the 92F pistols used by the United Nations, but still quite effective, especially given that it was pointed directly at Thompson's head.

Through her sunglasses, she narrowed her eyebrows. She was dressed in a sleeveless gray top and gray trousers, and her hair was ornately done in various braids. 

Morpheus circled around to appear behind her. "...let's not do anything rash."

Thompson smirked for a fraction of a second. "Of course not."

"You armed?" Niobe demanded. 

"Of course."

"Lemme see."

Thompson unbuttoned his blazer just enough for the Zionist to see the large IMI Desert Eagle resting in its holster, as well as the three extra 0.50AE magazines he kept on his left side, with three more on his right. 

Regardless, Thompson had no intention of handing over his firearm, given that the Zionists were also armed. And, somewhat to his surprised, he was not asked to. Rather, Niobe nodded, seemingly convinced, and holstered her own gun. "Good. At least you're open."

"I have nothing to hide," Thompson announced coldly. 

"And your agenda?" Morpheus countered. 

"I have none. _We_ do only what we were meant for." 

Niobe stepped back and let Thompson exit the elevator. "Follow me, Thompson." 

She led him into the empty bar, where he spotted the third, and final, Zionist, the one known by Ghost. He had not met Ghost personally, but was aware that Johnson had. Ghost sat at a table, very composed and very quiet, in front of a large, opened bottle of Chivas Scotch. Underneath the bottle was a city map, with several rings of moisture present on it. 

He looked up at Thompson, nodded, and the other two took seats next to him. Thompson remained standing.

"So, is Cook ready?" Niobe asked, getting to the point.

"He will be in eighty minutes."

"Good to hear. Where's our extraction point?" 

Thompson leaned forward and pointed to a spot on the table with his left index finger. "Here. A condemned tenement on the corner of Thirty-Second and Main."

Niobe nodded. "Sounds good."

Morpheus interrupted. "We need some assurance that we're not walking into a trap."

Underneath his sunglasses, Thompson narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"How do we know that there won't be an entire police department waiting for us there? Inside the building?"

"You're welcome to pick another location, provided that you can supply your _own_ extraction equipment," Thompson retorted, nearly hissing. 

"Looks like we'll have to take that risk," Niobe announced.

"There is always some risk," Ghost added. 

"Cook will be delivered by us after you arrive. A security team is standing by to oversee this, led by a woman from the United Nations."

Niobe reached into her pocket and produced another Samsung n270 cellular phone, pressing it open. "Who is she?" she asked, rapidly punching in a number.

"Lieutenant Colonel Karen M. Springfield." 

Niobe nodded, then spoke into her phone. "Operator?"

Without any physical reaction, Thompson increased the sensitivity of his hearing, so that he could hear. It did not seem as though Niobe was particularly concerned with the risk of him eavesdropping. The voice on the other end quickly responded. 

"Yeah?"

"Bring up all data on a Colonel Karen M. Springfield, from the UN."

"Will do, Boss." The faint sound of a keyboard clacking could be heard in the background. "Ah...here we go! Lieutenant Colonel Karen Meuller Springfield, born in 1976. Daughter of James and Alexandra Meuller-Springfield. Began service in the UN in 1999, probably a result of her parents' deaths in service to the UN as Peacekeepers back in 1994. Huh, this is interesting…"

Niobe's eyes drifted to Thompson, who had not moved or done anything to indicate he was listening. "What is it?"

"According to our records...her parents were both killed in a shootout. By two of ours: Colt and Mauser, trying to escape Agents during an intel mission."

This struck Thompson as somewhat of a surprise, though he did not react in any visible way. He kept facing the table and Ghost. Niobe returned to her phone. "You're telling me..."

"Uh huh. 'Fraid so, Captain."

"Thanks, Sparks." She hung up and pocketed the phone. "All right. I guess we'd better go. And you'd better find Cook."

Thompson nodded, as Niobe passed him, exiting the bar. Ghost looked at his glass, shaking the ice inside it around a bit, then stood up and followed her.

That left him alone with Morpheus, who stood at the entrance, not moving. He stared at Thompson, something clearly on his mind. They stared at one another for a few moments, neither of them flinching.

"What is it, Mr. Lee?" he asked.

Morpheus smiled the same buck-tooth smile. "Tell me something, Agent. How does it feel to be working to free the very people that you were created to enslave?"

Thompson shifted slightly, stepping forwad towards the human, causing Morpheus to unconsciously shift the weight of his body backwards. "As I told you before, Mr. Lee, _we _do only what we were meant for. That is what separates _us _and _you_." He then turned and walked towards the exit, leaving Morpheus behind.

The human smiled. "I suppose it does."

           **V**

"A little boring, isn't it?"

Fully-outfitted in their black Kevlar-and-titanium armor, the six-person Command Staff sat in a black UNRED vehicle, in an alleyway along 32nd Street. They had been waiting for the Agents to arrive, and were more or less resting inside the vehicle.

Lt. Colonel Springfield, whom was sitting behind the steering wheel, looked over her shoulder. Arisaka, whom was sitting behind her, had spoken. "Yeah, I guess it is," Springfield admitted.

"Shouldn't we get out?" Charles Pienaar, whom was sitting next to Springfield, asked.

"We're supposed to wait in here until further instructions," she said bluntly, adjusting her helmet.

"But is it really necessary to keep sitting here? With all this equipment on, I swear my lower body has fallen asleep."

Arisaka chuckled. "If you want, I can wake up something beneath your waist..."

Charles rolled his eyes. "I'll take a rain check." He paused. "What's the matter, EE? No witty repartee?" 

The five turned to Enfield, whom had remained very quiet, an unusual occurrence for her. "Hey, Liz...you awake?"

Mosin, whom was sitting next to Enfield, frowned and craned over. "She's playing with something."

"Dammit, Enfield!" Springfield snapped. "What did I tell you..._no videogames on mission_!" She frowned. "Mosin, get those goddamn earphones out of her ears!"

Mosin nodded and, in a single swift motion, yanked the small earphones out of Enfield's ears by the cord. She instantly jerked back, and looked at him. "What was that for?"

"Gimme that!" Springfield snapped at her back, snatching her small electronic entertainment device from her. "Dammit, Enfield, when I tell you _no videogames during missions_, there's a reason!"

"Hey! Give me that back!" Enfield demanded, trying to reach forward. "That's my gee-bee-es-pe!" Mosin grabbed her by the waist and kept her from reaching it. "Let me go!"

"I don't care what it is!" Springfield retorted, tossing the Game Boy/SP into the glove compartment. "You'll get it back _after the mission!_" She yanked her own helmet off and ran a gloved hand through her orange hair. "Christ...I'm commanding a squad of infants."

"Commander, someone's coming!" Daniel Pieenar commented, staring out the window.

Springfield turned her head, squinting out of the window. "Those damned Agents?"

Springfield stared out of her window. The combination of the tinted glass, the near pitch-darkness only interrupted by a distant streetlight, and simple stealth tactic of the Command Staff, they were able to watch three youngster adolescents dressed in the contemporary urban style, two males and a female. 

Springfield sighed, and nearly banged her head against the steering wheel. "What the hell are they…?"

Enfield smirked. "Three youngsters in big pants, ten-o'clock."

Arisaka checked her wristwatch. "Actually, it's ten twenty-one."

Enfield was indeed right, as they could see in the darkness: both males were dressed in comically large, baggy pants and similar sweatshirts. The female was dressed in similar comically large pants and a comically large leather jacket, open to reveal a stretchy T-shirt advertising a popular 'punk rock' band.

"Why the hell are they here?" Springfield asked, peering into the darkness. After a few moments, she noticed that her comrades were all using their night-vision goggles, and quickly snapped on her own over her eyes and switched them on. Her vision was replaced by the greenish-glow of night-vision, spotting the three newcomers more clearly. 

"I dunno," Charles responded, whispering, looking over her. "…they're coming this way..."

The six grew very quiet, stopping all conversation, as they monitored the three. It became possible to hear their conversation. They stumbled through the darkness.

"Dammit, I can't see shit in front of me!"

"Then turn on the flashlight, dumbass!"

"I gave you the light, dumbass!"

"Will one of you get the fucking flashlight already?!" the female rasped angrily. 

"All right, all right...here!" One of them fished a flashlight from their sweatshirt and switched it on, illuminating the alleyway slightly. 

One of them moved, startled. "Whoa...check out those wheels!"

"Huh? Where?"

The Command Staff quickly turned their faces away, covering their goggles, as the flashlight shone on them. Springfield mumbled a curse under her breath.

"Dude, the black SUV!"

"Damn...now that looks expensive..."

The female seemed to lean forward, and instantly recoiled back, as though she had been bitten. "What are you guys, stupid and blind? Look at the door!"

The light shifted towards the door, over the two large white letters. "U…N…shit! It's a _smurf_ car! Fuck, let's get out of here!"

"Are you kidding...It's a Benz, for Christ sakes! And there's no one here! Who the fuck leaves an empty Benz SUV in _this_ part of town?"

"Baby, I think this is a bad idea...The UN does some serious shit to people it don't like."

"Calm down, babe...this is just like that time we took the cop car..."

"_Yeah, I got shot in the ass_!"

"Shut up! You wanna' wake everyone up?"

"Forget it, man, let's go..."

"Fine, chicken, _you go_...but when opportunity knocks..." 

He handed the flashlight over to his male companion, who held it, quaking in his sneakers.

"Listen to her, moron!" he snapped. "We gotta' go!" 

"Would you two just relax? This'll just take a sec..." He reached into his pocket, digging around. "Come on, where the hell is it?" he rasped quietly. 

His blood virtually turned to ice as he looked up to see the black-tinted windows of the SUV slid down, revealing Lieutenant Colonel Springfield, her night-vision goggles raised to her forehead over strands of orange hair, a cool but triumphant grin on her face and a darkened by visible Beretta 92FS pistol in her hand. The tip of the gun's suppressor was only a few centimeters away from the young man's forehead.

"Hey there, kiddo," she said, almost cheerfully. 

"…" The 'youngster' gasped quietly, his jaw hanging open. He's feet shifted slightly, the colored drained from his face.

"What are you going to do now, punk?" she asked, gesturing at him with her gun.

He suddenly became very articulate, speaking with a near-intellectual but very panicked air. "...I'm sorry about t-this, ma'am. Very sorry…I-I'll go now..." he stuttered out. 

Springfield nodded, and watched as the man slowly stepped backwards and ran off, grabbing his two companions with him. Springfield turned to her own companions, and switched the safety off on her pistol, than twirled it around her index finger. "Now I remember why I _love _my job." 

           **VI**

_Now I remember _why_ I _hate_ my job_.

On his desk, Nathan Cook lay down another stack of documents. All three of the phones were ringing nonstop, but at the moment, his mind was sufficiently preoccupied to avoid thinking about it.

With a swift motion, he ripped the drawer out from his desk, and began emptying its contents on top. His paper shredder had jammed, and he had reasoned that there was one other obvious way to destroy these various documents: a conflagration. In his moderately inebriated, considerably panicked state, he had taken the bottle of liquor with the highest alcohol-proof on the label and intended to use it to set fire to the documents. 

Cook was not entirely sure if the substance, which according to the label was one hundred and seventy-proof, could be set aflame, but he really didn't stop to consider it. All that mattered was that these documents that he could not bring with him were destroyed.

The door slid open to reveal the three men he was expected, right on time, just as they had promised. "Agent Thompson!" he rasped out, pouring the bottle's contents onto the desk.

Agent Thompson watched, almost curiously, as the alcohol sloshed around on the various papers on the desk and the ringing phones. "What are you doing, Mr. Cook?"

He laughed the laugh of someone who was very clearly mentally disturbed. "Ah well, you see, this stuff has got to go. Corporate secrets. Classified expenses. Stuff like that." He finally emptied the bottle, poured the last few drops into his own mouth, and tossed it aside. It shattered unceremoniously against the wall. "Yeah, to be honest, all of this has got to go..." he mumbled, gesturing to the walls. "God forbid my competitors get a hold of it..."

Cook reached into his pocket and produced a butane lighter. He ignited it, and held it up to an alcohol-soaked document, hoping to set it a flame.

The Agents watched him for a few moments, and the alcohol simply evaporated, rather than combusting. Cook sighed and dropped the lighter on his desk, then tossed the document away. "Didn't work. Next place I go...I gotta' remember to have cyanide capsules and lighter fluid on hand." He nodded stupidly. 

Agent Thompson was getting tired of waiting it seemed. He reached forward and grabbed Cook by the arm. "We must go now, Mr. Cook..."

Cook looked at him, his eyes pink. With a raspy voice barely audible in the ringing, he responded. "Yeah, right, sorry about that. Uh...can you guys make this stuff..._go away_? I'd…appreciate it..."

Thompson seemed to think for a moment, and then turned to face Agent Jackson. The two exchanged a brief amount of unspoken dialogue lasting only a fraction of a second, and Agent Thompson led the inebriated Cook out of his office. Agent Jackson closed the door, and turned, facing the elevator shaft, his back to the door.

He put a finger to his earpiece, and seemed to shift, very lightly. The ringing in the office stopped, and Jackson walked onwards, joining the others.

When the waiting area was empty, the desk belonging to Cook's secretary shifted and from underneath it, Cook's secretary herself emerged from hiding, looking rather distraught. She quickly ran over to the door leading to the office and opened it.

Her eyes dilated when she saw the inside.  

There was nothing. No desk, no furniture, no blinds, nothing at all. The room was completely devoid of any sort of sign that anyone had ever resided in it. All that was present was a small light-bulb hanging from the ceiling, and a faint, dusty smell.

She nodded her head and slowly turned away, returning to her desk.

"I suppose...that's that." 

The three Agents led Cook to their BMW M5 and sat him in the back, next to Agent Johnson, as Agent Jackson drove. It was a short drive to the rendezvous point at the corner of 32nd and Main. The vehicle came to a stop about ten meters away from a large black SUV, which, despite its black paintjob, did not blend in at all with its surroundings. 

With Agent Johnson firmly holding him by his shoulder, Cook was forced out of the car and stood in the darkness, confused. "Now what?"

The doors on the SUV slid open, and several figures clad in black body armor stepped out, wielding various automatic weapons. "About damn time," the apparent leader, a woman, mumbled through her helmet.

"Colonel Springfield, establish a perimeter around these three buildings," Thompson ordered from behind Cook, gesturing at the three buildings that surrounded the alley. 

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say," the Colonel mumbled, before shuffling off, followed by five similar figures. 

Cook looked up at Agent Thompson, and with an expression of drunken curiosity, cocked an eyebrow. 

"Stay here," Thompson instructed him calmly. 

"...all right, then," Cook mumbled as he sat down, his legs crossed, on the pavement. He could see the three Agents move slightly, and before long they disappeared into the darkness. 

And Cook was alone. 

He wasn't sure how long he was. Other than a streetlamp at the end of the alley, he was surrounded by complete and utter darkness, and it was little good to try and determine the time.

"Is anyone out there?" he yelled out, his voice echoing in the cavern. "Hello?" 

"There's no need to yell, Nathan, we're here now," a calm voice responded in front of him. 

At a window of the condemned tenement, Colonel Springfield sat on the edge, her M4 propped against her leg in such a manner that it was aimed down at Mr. Cook and the area surrounding him. Through the scope, with visual enhancement, she watched him.

"There's someone trying to reach him," she mumbled.

Lieutenant Mosin blinked, then pulled his goggles over his head. He switched to heat-vision and stared out the window, over Springfield. "Yes, Colonel. Looks like a man..." he mumbled, staring at what was to him a red blur of body heat surrounded by an outline of yellow to green. 

"Can you hear them?" Springfield asked.

"_Nyet_. I should have brought the eavesdropping equipment." 

"No point in complaining now," she mumbled. "Their moving down the alley...we're going to loose them from this angle." She tapped the side of her helmet, activating her radio. "Arisaka, you there?"

From the top of one of the shorter buildings, Arisaka and Enfield lurked quietly in the darkness. They hid against the building's silhouette, so that the city lights nor the moon would reveal them. "_Hai, Okashira. _We'll keep monitoring from there."

"Good," Springfield's voice responded. "Don't loose them."

Enfield nodded, in the prone position, on the roof. "You know...this is the first time any of us has seen a Zionist and known it." 

Arisaka nodded. "A Freedmind, as they call themselves."

"Looks like they're going to wander into that building," Enfield reported to her radio. "Pienaar Bros, stay on them."

One of the brothers responded in a whisper. "Right!" Amongst the shadow of the two buildings, the Charles and Daniel Pienaar lurked, maintaining about twenty-paces behind Cook and the freedmind, brandishing their sub-machineguns. They moved precariously, taking care to remain in the shadows when occasional lights did appear, relying on their training as police officers.

The two targets passed through a doorway, the taller one turning and giving the Pienaars, who believed themselves to have been very discreet, a rather unnerving glance. "Stop following us."

The two stopped in their tracks, still aiming their MP5s forward, not daring to move any further. The freedmind turned around and led Mr. Cook in after him, closing the door and locking it.

Daniel and Charles both relaxed, cursing the turn of events. "Colonel, we've lost them," Daniel mumbled into his radio. "We could follow them into the building..."

"Negative. Hold your position." On the other hand, Springfield turned her radio off and sighed. "Well, that's that. I suppose our role is done."

"That wasn't painful at all," Arisaka quipped. "More like a minor intestinal cramp."

"Yeah, I guess so."

Inside the building, the freedmind Morpheus led Cook down the hallway into a well-lit room. In this room was assembled a considerable amount of strange, rather unappealing looking machinery around what seemed to be a rather unremarkable wooden chair set before a broken mirror. Several monitors, glowing with blue displays, were arranged in a semicircle, and a phone was present as well. 

"This is one of our more common methods of _extraction_, as the Machines call it. We prefer the word _liberation_," Morpheus explained, leading Cook to the chair. At the machine stood a woman and a man, both wearing sunglasses. 

"Everything going smoothly?" the woman asked.

"It would seem so, Niobe."

She nodded and turned to the man. "Ghost, start 'er up."

Ghost nodded silently and began to fiddle with the control panel on the machine. Morpheus gestured at Cook to sit down at the chair, and he did so, and was outfitted with various pieces of monitoring equipment hooked to the machine. Ghost glanced at screens, which displayed cardio-vascular and other life signs.

"Seems stable enough. I say we go ahead and do this."

Niobe nodded. "Right. I don't like the idea of us being surrounded this long."

Morpheus grinned his bucktooth grinned. "So, you are afraid of them, after all."

"Shut up, Morpheus," Niobe promptly retorted before taking out her cellular phone. She turned it on and put it to her ears. "Sparks? How's he look?"

A brief pause followed. "Good. We're going to go ahead and send him through. Have a drone ready to pick him up."

Cook looked up at her as she walked past. "What...what exactly are you going to do with me?" 

"Transubstantiation," Morpheus explained, keeping his eyes on the doors that lead into the room, as though he was expecting an attack at any moment.

"You really like using big words, don't you?" Cook asked sardonically. Behind him, he heard an unnerving noise, something totally unlike anything he had heard before. The closest thing it resembled was the sound of glass shattering, but in reverse. He turned behind him and found himself staring into his own, unbroken reflection.

"Wait...wasn't that just broken?" he asked. 

Morpheus picked up the receiver of the telephone set near the machine, and placed it on top a complex mechanism. A dial tone sounded. "We're online." He turned to Cook, and continued explaining. "That capsule you took was part of a tracing program, designed to disrupt your carrier signals so that we may find you."

"What do you mean _find me_?" 

"Life signs stable, commencing with phase two," Niobe added, ignoring him. She tapped the keyboard. "Engaging release programs now..."

"Make sure he doesn't go into cardiac arrest," Ghost warned.

"Should I be worried?" Cook asked. He gasped as the mirror's surface began to shimmer, like liquid mercury, then stared at it blankly. Slowly, he reached forward and touched the surface. The mirror maintained its liquid composition, sticking to his finger as he rapidly pulled away.

"Moving on to phase three," Niobe announced, stepping away from the keyboard. "It's up to him now."

"Uh...I realize you don't like answering the questions _I _ask, but...what's happening?" Cook asked, his voice becoming more and more panicked. The mercury-like substance began to spread over his hand and down his arm.

"That mirror is a medium program, used for the process."

"What the hell does that mean?" Cook screamed, as the tried to move away from the spreading liquid, to no avail. "God, it's cold!"

"Adrenalin's kicking in," Ghost warned. "Heart rate increasing."

"No shit," Niobe quipped. 

"God no! Wait…stop!" The liquid had spread underneath Cook's clothing and to his neck, and was rapidly approaching his mouth. 

Outside, the members of the Command Staff took various positions around the outside of the building occupied by the Freedminds, the Pienaar Brothers holding their ground a few meters away from the doorway. Charles shuddered as Cook's screams, audible to them, increased in pitch and frequency, before he was silenced altogether. 

"Whatever the hell they're doing to the man," Charles commented, removing his goggles. "I'm damn glad it's not happening to me."

"Hear, hear," Daniel responded. 

Above them, on a rooftop, Colonel Springfield pulled the receiver of her M4 carbine open, checking the ammunition out of idleness. "Well, it's official. This was a fucking waste of time and effort."

"Come now, Springfield-san," Arisaka mumbled from her position, lying down on the roof. Once her head was sufficiently hidden behind the building's edge, she loosened the straps of her helmet and pulled it off, her long, dark hair a mess. "As a soldier, you should certainly know that this profession calls for long moments of waiting...waiting for our deaths."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Springfield admitted. Arisaka was completely right: most people did not realize that soldiers, and anyone else involved in a traditional war, spent long periods of time marching, laboring, or just loafing around in general. "I just thought this would be different."

"Be glad it isn't, _Okashira_. Change…is bad."

Springfield looked at her partner oddly. Her helmet's built-in radio beeped, and she struck it. "Springfield here." She expression turned from curiosity to irritation. "Fine, whatever. Go ahead." She struck her helmet again. "Idiot." She turned to Arisaka again. "You know, I always thought the British were...you know...responsible. Or some shit like that. I mean, _Je-sus_."

"This is why our parents tell us not to believe in the stereotypes," Arisaka mumbled, rising to her feet, and placing her helmet back over her head. "What did EE want?"

"What else? Her damned videogame." 

Arisaka laughed, quickly scanning the street. "Classic Elizabeth Enfield. Look over there," she said in her always-whispering voice. "Our good friends are back…all of them."

Disregarding caution, Springfield leaned over the edge for a better view. The man who had taken Cook remerged from the building, followed by a woman and another man. And seemingly out of the shadows, the three Agents approached them. She struck her helmet. "Daniel, what's going on?"

Both brothers remained crouched behind a set of boxes and a garbage can, and Charles slowly peaked around the corner. He whispered into his radio. "The Agent-Commanders are approaching the other party, it seems."

Springfield nearly burst a blood vessel upon hearing the term 'Agent-Commanders'.

Agent Thompson, unsurprisingly, stood in front of his two companions. "Is it done?"

"Yes," Niobe responded, taking a position in front of Morpheus. "Thanks for your help." 

There was an awkward pause, broken by the Zionist Captain. "We'll see you guys next time."

"Of course," Thompson responded dryly. "Good evening, Ms. Evans."

With this, the three Agents, starting with Thompson and then going on to Johnson and Jackson, slowly turned around. Thompson put a finger to his earpiece. "Commander, gather your personnel. This operation is over."

"Oh, thank God!" a voice mumbled, as an armor-clad UN officer emerged from behind the boxes. A second followed shortly. "Of course, I mean that in the rhetorical sense, I think." They both held MP5s in their arms. 

The three Freedminds looked at them, the bald one in particular, who gave an expression of disgust at the two humans aiding the Agents, as they left with their commanders. 

"Let it go, Morpheus," Niobe admonished her companion as she produced her cellular phone. "Let it go."

**Author's Notes: **

Okay! Okay! This time, I had an excuse! I actually finished this chapter more than a week ago, but for some reason, I neglected to upload it, convincing myself that I would eventually get around to correcting it grammatically….hah! Yeah, right! Anyway, please enjoy, the next Segment will be up sooner than you think!


	9. Conflict

**The Matrix: Deliverance **

**Segment 8 - Conflict**

"You know what was a great movie? _Blazing Saddles_."

"Yeah, that was a good one."                             

"You remember that, right?"

"Of course, it's a classic."

Corporal Enfield and Lieutenant Arisaka sat in small room, their weapons resting on their laps. "How about _To Be or Not to Be_? With Mel Brooks?"

Arisaka nodded. "I remember that vaguely."

"It was a good one. A lot of good Woody Allen flicks as well."

Arisaka cocked her head in thought, and considered it. A beeping came from her wrist, and she checked her watch. "Looks like we should go, Eechan."

"Of course." Enfield lifted her MP5 submachine carbine, switched off the safety, and pulled the bolt back. Arisaka did similar with her M4 assault carbine, and pulled her helmet back over her head. "Who did we say would run?" Enfield asked.

"I think that was me...I'm the faster one, I'd imagine," Arisaka responded, tightening the strap of her helmet and pulling her goggles over her eyes.

Enfield approached the room's small door, and put one gloved hand over the doorknob, and kept the other one on her weapon, which hung from her shoulders by a strap. "Very well then. Covering fire, I suppose?"

Arisaka nodded, preparing herself to sprint. "_Hai_."

Enfield took a deep breath, and snapped the doorknob down, and the door opened. Immediately, she fired several shots into the doorway, and Arisaka immediately took off, down the corridor. Enfield quickly leaned out of the doorway, and lay down a screen of covering fire.

Arisaka continued her mad dash down the corridor, perpendicular to the door she had left from, and dove behind the only available cover: a metal desk in a small room at the end of the corridor. She immediately lifted her M4 over the rim of the desk and fired down at her assailants. With her back against the desk, she called out. "EE! HURRY UP!"

A moment later, another armor-clad figure sprinted out of the room, firing randomly after her, and dove behind the desk, next to Arisaka. Around them, bullets ricocheted around them from several well-protected positions at the other end of the corridor.

"Bloody hell, Karen better have secured the objective," Enfield hissed and ejected a spent magazine from her MP5. "A minute here, and we're dead."

Arisaka shrugged. "I can think of worse. I just wish we had a few grenades."

"Yeah, a flash-bang would be bloody useful now." One bullet came particularly close to her. "Shit!"

Arisaka smacked the side of her helmet, engaging her radio. "Breaking radio silence," she mumbled, shifting herself around the back of the desk. "_Okashira! Okashira! _Is it done?"

There was a response, and Arisaka hit her helmet again, ending the communication. "She's got him, thankfully. My, these fellow are persistent."

"The Merovingian really knows how to pick them, eh?" Enfield joked, as she raised her MP5 over the desk and began firing randomly.

"We should keep in mind that none of these fellows may be human," Arisaka mumbled, changing her magazine. "At least, not human like you or I." She reached into her pocket and produced a small compact mirror, and held it so that she could see over the desk behind her. "I ran last, so you do it this time."

"Understood." Enfield stopped firing, and took the mirror from Arisaka, and peered at their surroundings. The office where they were hiding was dominated by a large window, which overlooked the rest of the structure. "That window looks good."

Arisaka shifted her aim and a single 5.56mm NATO round shattered the window, then aimed back at the assailants. "On my signal..."

She unleashed another barrage on them. "…go! Now!"

Enfield scrambled madly from behind the desk, protected somewhat by Arisaka's covering fire. Without pausing, she dove through the window and fell two stories down, into the center room of the structure, a large dance stage. She immediately stood up, sighted her MP5, and looked around. Enfield quickly spotted a single threat, and began showering him with 9mm Parabellum ammunition.

"Arisaka! All clear! Move, now!"

A second later, the taller Arisaka dashed out of the above third floor, and crashed to the floor, protected by her padded armor.

"You are right?"

Arisaka nodded. "Nearly sprained my ankle, but nothing that call Death about..." she joked.

"Where the hell is the Commander?"

"Here she comes, I believe..."

Sure enough, a set of swinging doors busted open, and the familiar figure of Karen Springfield, her bright orange hair standing out in the relative darkness of the room. Behind her, a blindfolded man scrambled after her, groping around to find his surroundings, with considerable difficult as his wrists were cuffed together. More shooting followed, both from the swinging doors and the broken window, and the man ducked at her feet.

"Looks like she got herself a boyfriend," Enfield laughed.

"It's the only way she can get some," Arisaka quipped.

"Hey! WOULD YOU TWO STOP SCREWING AROUND AND CALL JACK?" Springfield screamed. Her own M4 clicked empty, and she tossed it aside, withdrawing her two Beretta 92F pistols. Now carefully taking her shots, she resumed firing.

Arisaka nodded, and smacked the side of her helmet. Springfield was speaking of Agent Jackson, of course, whom had been assigned with them for this operation. "Jackson-sama! Sir! I'm sorry to bother you but…"

Enfield grabbed Arisaka's helmet by the strap and yelled into her ear. "WE NEED TO BE PICKED UP, MOMMY!"

Arisaka fell backwards, her ears ringing. "I could have told him that," she whispered as she began firing at the window from the ground.

"Knowing Jackson, he'll be here in a couple of seconds," Enfield nodded, before overturning a table and taking cover behind it. She hid behind it, and turned to her comrades. "COMMANDER! OVER HERE!"

Springfield holstered her pistol and grabbed the blindfolded man's shoulder, dragging him behind the table. She gasped deeply and kept her back against the table, then joined Arisaka by shooting at the window. "What I want to know is why the hell Jackson isn't here to start with?"

"Because he's the getaway driver," Enfield said with a giggle, which ended abruptly as a hole was blown through the table only a few centimeters from her head.

"And why the hell is that?" Springfield demanded.

"So you admit that we need the guys in the suits, huh?" Enfield retorted, sticking her finger through the hole experimentally.

Springfield's face contorted and she smacked the top of Enfield's helmet with her the butt of her pistol, knocking her back slightly and popping her radio on. Before Enfield could complained, she turned to Arisaka. "How much you got left?" she asked, gesturing to her rifle.

"Two magazines, I think," she whispered.

"Shit."

Arisaka stared at the blindfolded man. "Is that our guy?"

"It had better be," Springfield responded.

Arisaka cocked her hidden eyebrow. "_Mooshi mooshi_!" she yelled, tapping the man with her foot.

"What?" the man snapped from his position on the ground. "Dammit, stop kicking me, bitch!"

Arisaka glanced at Springfield, who shrugged. "He's had a bad day."

"Are you Hernando L. Chavez, also known as 'El Medico'?"

"Yes! YES! SI! DA! HAI! WHATEVER! JUST LET ME GO DAMMIT!" he snapped back.

"Well, I'm sold," Arisaka mumbled, then began her typical chuckle.

Amidst the gunfire, several distinct, low-pitch gunshots rang out, and Springfield looked over the table's rim briefly. A familiar individual, clad in his black suit and sunglasses, entered the building via the main entrance, firing his Desert Eagle handgun.

"Finally!" Springfield cried, rolling her eyes, as the Program Jackson shoved his way through the men at the door, throwing one of them past the table where the three UN RED officers were hiding. The barrage from the entrance ended, and they immediately emerged from behind the table, Springfield dragging their objective along with them. "What took you so long?"

Jackson looked at her indifferently, and holstered his Desert Eagle, and adjusted his tie. "What happened to your helmet, Colonel?" he asked slowly, looking at Springfield.

Springfield stuck her tongue out at her and rushed over to the black BMW M5, parked at the sidewalk in front of the club. She yanked the door open, forced the blindfolded man into the backseat, and sat down next to him. Arisaka took one last look at the building they had assaulted, one of the many nightclubs that had been controlled by the Merovingian, before she quickly circled around and sat to the captive's left, while Enfield sat next to Jackson, the driver.

"Christ, that was uncomfortable. Why the hell did we get the hard mission, anyway?" Springfield demanded, holstering her handgun.

"I believe it was Arisaka who called 'heads' in the coin toss," Enfield explained quickly.

Arisaka chuckled. "Heh. What does not kill me, makes me stronger."

"What a total load of crap," Springfield mumbled, shaking her head.

Enfield ignored the two in the backseat and turned to Agent Jackson. "Did I mention, sir, that you made an incredible entrance?" she asked, a strange glimmer in her eyes. "Absolutely incredible! Other chaps sneak in, but you, no, you go in, guns blazing!"

Springfield let out a moan upon hearing Enfield and buried her head in her hands. "I wonder how the guys are doing."

                        **II**

"Did you get it?"

"Yes, Comrade, I got it. Calm down."

"Listen, I don't think you realize how urgent this is, Lieutenant!"

"How is this being urgent, exactly?"

Charles Pienaar and Alexi Mosin sat down on a bench on a city sidewalk, the later holding a bag. Inside were two cups of coffee. Charles snatched both of them, sniffed each one, and returned one to Alexi. He immediately removed the top off the one he kept and began drinking deeply.

"You need help, Charles."

Charles looked up from his cup, now sporting a mustache of froth. "Well, excuse me if I need my caffeine in the morning to function. Not everyone is a morning person, like you," he retorted, adding, "You freak." 

Mosin rolled his eyes, and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a radio. "Daniel, what's your status?"

The other Pienaar Brother's voice came through. "She hasn't left the building yet. Still watching."

"Good." Mosin clicked the radio off and leaned back on the bench, then slowly began sipping his coffee through the small slit in the plastic lid.

"What do you think she's doing in a cyber-café?" Pienaar asked.

"Probably something to do with the _cyber _part," Mosin replied, rolling his eyes again.

The three male members of the Command Staff were observing another candidate for extraction, a woman by the name of Margaret H. Lee. Once they had known of their objective, they had devised a plan to approach her, and then evacuate her, as quickly as humanly possible. It had involved, among other things, a tip-off to the local police authorities that Miss Lee, also know as Pandora in certain hacker circles, was among the nation's twenty most dangerous individuals, and was violating a condition of her parole by being within five meters of a computer that was connected to the internet.

"That, comrades, is why it's important to read between the lines," Mosin declared, having taken most of the credit for the scheme.

_Any second now...a group of police cruisers should block off the front of that café. She'll panic, of course, and take the back entrance near the fire escape, and make a run for the bus stop. By then, the eleven-fifteen downtown should just be arriving, providing a seemingly perfect escape._

Little did she know that the male half of 'Team D' was not as harmless as they looked.

"And here are our boys in black now..." Mosin mumbled as three police cruisers, with their sirens on, drove up to the front of the cyber-café, causing more than a little ruckus. Several officers emerged from the vehicles, drawing their handguns. One of them spoke through a loudspeaker.

"Margaret Lee! You are under arrest for violating the terms of your parole! Exit the building now, with your hands above your head!" he screamed. As the police commander did so, Daniel Pienaar, dressed in a uniform identical to those of the local police, slipped in from the shadows of the alley and seamlessly into the crowd of officers.

He turned to the police commander with the speaker. "Sir, I'm going to go secure the back…" he yelled, as though there was nothing remotely unusual about it.

The commander nodded. "Good thinking...you..." he mumbled, though by the time he found that he did not recognize Daniel Pienaar, the had disappeared and the commander dismissed him as someone new to the force. _With all those guys KIA a few months ago, you see a lot of new faces._

Daniel Pienaar circled the café quickly and came to a halt at the rear exit, just as the door swung inwards. A woman of Chinese descent emerged, looked around briefly, and scampered out, into Pienaar's arms.

"Gotcha!"

"Son of a bitch!" she screamed angrily, slamming her heel down on his foot. Daniel let out a whimper but held on, tightening his grip on her. "Let go of me, asshole!"

"Listen, dammit! I'm here to help you!" he screamed at her, though by the way she was struggling, she didn't seem convinced. "Damn it, stop squirming!" _Thank goodness she's small..._

She continued her efforts to break free, quite valiantly, but to know avail. Daniel continued. "_Listen to me!_ I'm here to give you a choice...you can spend the rest of your life in a woman's prison, trying to avoid being _raped _by your cellmates, _or _you can _let me help you get out of here_."

"I'm supposed to believe that?" She asked, before turning around sufficiently so that she could knee him in the groin. Daniel emit a short grunt, and reaching back, produced a police truncheon from his belt and smacked her across the face. Miss Lee fell to the ground, and Daniel placed both hands over his crotch, limping about.

"Bitch...should have seen that coming...owww…"

He attempted to straighten himself out, as the pain in his groin began to lessen, and found himself wishing he hadn't suggested this plan of him impersonating an officer. _I didn't remember it being this bad back in Pretoria. _

"Listen you..." he began as he turned around to face where Lee had fallen, only to see her running off towards the street. "Shit!" he snapped as he produced his radio. "Alex! Alex! She got away, she's going for the bus...you get her there!"

"Da, Comrade!" the voice on the other end replied. "Are you okay? Your voice sounds a little funny."

"Just shut up and get her!" he snapped as he holstered the radio, just as several legitimate police officers appeared. One of them saw him in pain, and helped him to his feet.

"She's making a run for the street, maybe to a vehicle," he warned them, making his voice sound as close to a local dialect of English as possible. Before they could reply, or even question whether he was an officer, he sprinted down towards the street as fast as he could, given the pain in his lower body.

Thankfully, it was fast enough. He arrived just in time to see Miss Lee rushing onto a city bus, as he had anticipated. Quickly, he scanned the street for another vehicle. His attention immediately focused on a large, oversized Ford F-250 Super Heavy-Duty Pickup. The driver was wearing a so-called eight-gallon hat, it seemed.

_I hate people who feel the need to wear those stupid cowboy hats when they're driving._

"She's in the black pickup truck!" he screamed, pointing at the Ford, just as the officers arrived.

On the other side of the street, Mosin and Charles Pienaar waited in the path of the bus patiently. Mosin leaned forward slightly and spotted it coming.

"You're sure this will work?" Mosin asked. Charles had developed a scheme to stop the bus that seemed to give Mosin the impression that perhaps simple methods were not always the best.

"Trust me, _Comrade_, I think I know a little bit more about capitalism then you do," he replied with a quick grin.

Mosin rolled his eyes. "Right. Of course." _It'll be your own fault if the bus runs over you_.

Charles waited until the traffic cleared slightly, and stepped out into the middle of the road, committing the offense of jaywalking, had it not been for the fact that he came to a stop in the middle of the first lane, the bus charging towards him. Calmly, he reached into his pocket and produced a leather wallet, then began to slowly take out twenty-dollar notes from it.

As the bus grew over closer, Charles secured four twenty-dollar notes in his hand, extended it, palm open forwards, at the bus. The driver was quick to notice the man standing in the middle of the street, but even quicker to notice the eighty dollars in his hand, and stepped on the break. The bus grounded to a half, stopping right at Charles' hand, his palm pressing the money against the windshield.

Alexi nodded. "I have to admit, I am impressed."

Charles smiled broadly. "Do not underestimate the power of..." he explained, glancing at the bills, "...Mr. Andrew Jackson."

The two quickly climbed onto the bus, and as Charles handed the driver eighty dollars for his cooperation, someone screamed. Miss Lee recognized the man as who she thought she had just kneed in the groin earlier, though sporting civilian attire and a mustache.

"WHAT THE HELL?" she demanded, pressing herself against her seat, as though she hoped to disappear. "How did you...you clothes...but..."

"You obviously mean my brother. Sometimes, having a twin is very convenient." He walked down the aisle and quickly grabbed her forearms. Mosin slapped his metal handcuffs down on her wrists. "However, while I'm not my brother, I'm still here to help you, believe it or not."

Several police cruisers screamed past the bus, silence blaring. Smiling, Charles reached into Alexi's coat pocket and produced the radio. "We can still call the police, Miss Lee."

Lee stopped struggling in her handcuffs. "Fine, what do you want?"

Charles stepped out of the way, as Mosin produced a small metal container and sat down next to their captive. He opened it, and inside were two capsules, one red, and one blue. "You're a very dangerous woman, Miss Lee," Mosin explained quietly, pronouncing it _wary_. "We're here to offer you a choice, for you and for us. So you take this blue capsule, and you forget all of this, and wake up in a jail cell. Or you can take the red capsule, and leave this world, probably forever."

Lee looked at the pills. "You mean suicide?"

Mosin shook his head, and smiled cynically. "You know what I mean, _Pandora_. Do not be playing dumb. You know what has been happening to your more fortunate comrades. Not _all _are dead."

Lee grit her teeth, as Charles flipped on the radio threateningly. She quickly took the capsule and swallowed it, finishing off with a "Fuck you two," at them.

Charles changed the radio channel with a quick twist of the knob. "Whatever you say, lady." Mosin stood up, and the two lead her out of the bus, though not before Mosin turned to the other riders.

"Very sorry about this. And from the City Transit Authority, we are thanking you for your patronage."

The three quickly got off the bus, Mosin waving at the commuters as they left, further confusing them. Charles tossed him the radio. "Call Daniel, tell him to get Agent Johnson."

Mosin nodded, catching the radio. "Of course."

"I thought you said you wouldn't call the cops!" Lee protested.

"We're not," Charles retorted. "We're not with the locals. We're Peacekeepers."

Lee just looked at him strangely.

"And you've just been _delivered_."

                        **III**

Union Plaza, before being seized by the Federal Government and given to the Machinists by a secret Human-Machine contact, had served as a corporate headquarters for Union Creations Limited, a company specializing in internet software. It had been quite successful before its collapse following the so-called "Dot Com Bust" and economic recession in the nation.

Union Plaza reflected this. Built in a more prosperous time, the building hinted of an excellent design. Among these hints were its modern restrooms, located two on every floor, as well as a larger restrooms located every fifteen floors, sans the forty-fifth floor.

The large restrooms located on the thirtieth floor, in particular, were notable. Located on opposite ends of the building, they had been cheaply converted by the Maintenance Division into showers prior to the arrival of the other personnel, via removal of most of the toilets and installing inexpensive showerheads in the stalls, as well as the necessary pipe-work.

"God, why the hell did _we _have to take heads on the coin toss?" Springfield demanded, as the three entered the women's showers on the Thirtieth Floor. "I mean, that just _sucked_." She shot Arisaka a glance. "Next time, Enfield makes the call on which side of the coin."

"Hai, _Okashira_," Arisaka mumbled. The three had shed their body armor and equipment and were clad in their smudged, stained jumpsuits.

"You know," Enfield added. "Maybe it's just me, but that mission kind of put me in the mood to go dancing or something. This evening, I mean," she explained, thinking back to the Merovingian's Club that they had just raided. She reached around her back and pulled down the jumpsuit's zipper, hidden underneath a cloth flap.

"It's not called 'dancing' anymore, EE," Springfield explained, unzipping her own jumpsuit similarly, before letting it fall around her ankles and kicking it off. "It's called 'clubbing'."

"Yes, well, I'd like to go _clubbing_ in an environment where people aren't shooting at me."

"Where's the fun it that?" Arisaka asked, in her usual mumbling tone, as she also disrobed. The three left their clothes and undergarments on a small shelf set against a wall that that acted as a buffer for the area near the door leading to the restroom from the actual showering area. The sounds of others bathing could already be heard, and several towels were available. Each of the members of the Command Staff took one of the white cotton towels and entered the showering area. As they passed through the area, Enfield looked up at the ceiling.

"Is it just me, or is really foggy in here? I mean, it's like the bloody moors of Scotland." She took off her glasses, which had become fogged up.

"Probably has something to do with the piping..."

"Hey look, girls, it's the commanders!" a voice chirped, amongst the sounds of running water. The three UN-commissioned officers nearly slipped on the wet floor, caught off guard.

"...uh..." Springfield began, looking downwards in the direction of the voice. Through the steam, a figure was discernable. On the floor, sitting nude on a plastic stool in the corner, next to a bucket filled with soapy water, sat Nabiki Ikari, waving cheerfully at them.

"Congratulations on your success, we in the Kitchen were quite worried about you!" She shook her short black hair, dripping about, and stood up, sticking out her hand. Springfield just stared at Nabiki, her eye twitching. _You're naked..._

When the Lieutenant Colonel failed to respond to Nabiki's well-wishing, Arisaka quickly stepped in and shook hands with Nabiki. "_Hai, arigato!_"

"Eh, yeah, thanks mate," Enfield mumbled quickly, shaking Nabiki's hand as well, before stumbling through the steam to what she hoped was an empty stall for a shower.

Springfield stood alone, as Nabiki gave up and returned to her stool on the floor, pouring the bucket over herself and scrubbing the cooking grease out from beneath her nails. After a few moments, when she tore her eyes away from Nabiki's back, she rapidly stepped towards the opposite end of the room.

"Don't feel bad, Colonel, it's normal to be a little uncomfortable in these sort of close-quarters, under the conditions."

"Huh, wha…?" Springfield shifted around, but not before her body bumped against another object hidden in the bathroom's increasingly thick fog. She quickly recoiled in embarrassment. "Sorry I...hey, Doc, is that you?"

The figure shifted in the fog, becoming clearer. "Correct, Colonel."

Springfield squinted and sighed in relief, not because it was Dr. Akasi, but because Union Plaza's physician, like her, was clad in a towel, which was tucked underneath her arms. "Yeah, well, I suppose we all gotta' get clean somehow, but wouldn't you have your own showers in the med-level?"

"Just because I am the building physician doesn't mean I should be exempt from the same routine that the rest of you must endure," Akasi explained, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. "Additionally, this is a fairly good time to see if there is anything wrong physically with the female half of the staff that they're not willing to share."

"...right...actually, I'm glad to see you here. I gotta' talk with you. _In private_."

Akasi cocked an eyebrow. "All right, go ahead."

Springfield looked around, nervously. Nabiki was still washing herself on a stool, and Arisaka and Enfield were in the stalls, showering. "I said 'in private'..."

"This is one of the few areas in the building not covered by security cameras, Colonel," Akasi dutifully reminded her. "This is as private as it gets. Unless..."

The two exchanged glances and walked into a small stall, closing the door after them. Still clad in her towel, Springfield turned the faucet on the wall, as water poured loudly from the showerhead.

"Just incase," she explained, now dripping with water.

Akasi spat out some water from her mouth, as it poured down her face in streams. "What's on your mind, Colonel?"

Springfield sighed, immediately giving Dr. Akasi the impression that whatever she was going to ask was not going to be positive. "Listen, there's no subtle way to say this, so I'm just gonna' come right out and say this: I want you to make me a suicide pill."

Dr. Akasi stared at Springfield blankly, and reached over, twisting the faucet further. The water pressure rose, and the small stall grew noisier. "...why?"

"Listen, Doc...I realize we haven't been in that many missions, but I've been in enough to know that if those damned freedminds corner me, I'm not going to let them take me alive. Sure, all the candidates agreed to take the freakin' red pill, but, God, I've never heard people scream like that..."

Akasi sighed. "All right, all right..."

"I mean, five minutes after we hand them over...they're screaming god damn murder..."

"Colonel..."

"Christ, I mean, my sister didn't scream so loud when she was giving birth...and she didn't have that freaking epidermal! I warned her against that damned tattoo on her back..."

"COLONEL!"

"What?" Springfield asked, jolting back. "Oh yea, sorry, got lost there. Anyway, can you do it?"

Akasi crossed her arms over her towel, her eyes drifting towards the tattoo on Springfield's arm. "Cyanide. It's simple, it's effective, and it's easily available."

Springfield nearly asked how it came to be so available to her, but refrained. "Good. I'll pick them up later."

"Are you completely sure about this, though?" Akasi asked. "Do you know the full nature of this...'extraction' process that you're assisting the Agents with?"

"No, you're right, I don't. But frankly, whatever it is, I'm pretty sure I'd rather die first." She sighed, water pouring over her. "I have my reasons."

"Of course, Colonel. I'll supply you with them when I have a free moment. Pay me a visit in the next few days."

Springfield nodded, reaching towards the stall door. "Good. Oh, and you know, you tell the Agents about this...and I'm gonna' have to implicate you," she warned with a smile. "With your experiments and stuff."

Akasi nodded. "Of course, Colonel." She turned the current from the faucet down, and shook her hair, dripping about. "I'm glad I could assist you." But by then, she found herself alone in the stall. _At least that's over with..._ She dropped her towel and twisted the faucet once more.

                        **IV**

"Christ...what a waste of time that was."

"Daniel..."

"I mean, seriously! About seventy pages worth of paperwork and logistics, hours of preparation, just so we could do a ten-minute extraction? Couldn't we just have bundled this with a bunch of other candidates. But no…we have to do this, one at a time...so we end up wasting forty-times the time necessary."

"Two beers, and one ice tea to go?"

In Union Plaza's cafeteria, the three males who made up the Command Staff, sat at a counter. Ms. Myers stood at the other side, holding three glasses on a tray. She set the tray down on the counter, and the three took their drinks.

"Thanks, Ms. Myers," Mosin nodded, before taking his tea. Both Pienaar brothers took their beers and began drinking, as Charles belched and responded to his brother. "For God sakes, Daniel, can't you just be grateful enough that it _was _this easy. I mean, would you rather we been shot at, like the girls did?"

"At least they accomplished something…what did we do? We confiscated a police uniform, led an entire department on a false chase..."

"…and you got kneed in the groin," Mosin added helpfully.

Daniel gave Mosin a hateful glance and turned back to the counter, drinking deeply from his glass. "The Agents really don't know the talents that they're wasting, in addition to the time and money."

Ms. Myers sighed, and her eyes drifted towards the small security camera mounted on the ceiling. "You might want to watch what you're saying, sir."

"Yes, Comrade, after all, they do see everything,"

Daniel rolled his eyes and leaned backwards in his chair, nearly falling out. "Please…don't tell me that you're afraid of what they think."

Charles looked at the camera briefly. "Well…not so much what they think, but what they intend to do. You know they can still take us as hosts."

Daniel made the 'raspberry blowing' sound with his lips, and Mosin sighed. "Whatever the case is, I think we should be wary of what we say."

"Besides, Thompson and the others are busy," Daniel mumbled, setting the empty glass down. He lowered his voice, speaking directly to Ms. Myers. "Could I get some onion rings?"

"I'll think so...let me check."

"What do you mean, they're busy? How do you know that?" Mosin asked suspiciously.

Daniel frowned, turning his head to face the window. Outside, on the right side of the building, hung the flags of the United Nation's various member states, in a multitude of different bright colors. "Well, if you must know, Agent Thompson hasn't left his office for the past two days. Furthermore, I saw Jackson and Johnson each leading one of the 'candidates' to his office as they came." He turned away from the flag and to the counter, just as Ms. Myers set down a plate of onion rings.

"We call them 'union rings'," she joked.

Daniel nodded and took one. Charles and Mosin exchanged nervous glances, and both looked back at the camera, before quickly preoccupying themselves with their drinks. Between 'union rings', Daniel saw the two, who had slowly inched to the other end of the counter, huddled over. "What? _What_?"

The same flags that Daniel had momentarily been preoccupied with were also the focus of attention for one of the two humans in the administrative office on the 45th Floor of Union Plaza. They were not, however, alone, as three sentient programs accompanied them.

Agent Thompson sat at his desk, staring intently at the computer monitor. To his left and right, remaining behind his desk, stood Agents Jackson and Johnson, accordingly.

"There is the signal," Johnson said, bluntly, pointing at the monitor.

"Zion has not been as careful as we would have expected with their signal frequencies," Jackson mumbled.

Miss Lee and Mr. Chavez both sat before the desk, handcuffed to the metal chairs they sat on, the later drifting in and out of consciousness and still covered with grime from the firefight.

"Perhaps they believe they have nothing to fear."

"I doubt that is the case."

"What the hell do you guys want with us?"

Jackson and Johnson both looked up from the monitor, as though caught off guard. The fingers of Thompson's right had flicked against the screen, and he turned his head slightly. "Excuse me?"

Lee's eyes darted back and forth, between the window view of Thompson's office, from where one could see the flags that lined to side of the building, to Thompson himself, staring at her, from behind his desk. "Why have you brought us here?" she repeated, pulling at her handcuffs.

Thompson looked briefly at Johnson. "My _associates_, or the officers under their command, must have already told you why you were _detained_."

"Yeah, they said something about making 'a choice' and being freed," Lee responded, nearly screaming. "What choice and from what we're being freed, we haven't been told. In short, _no one is telling us shit_!" She turned to her companion, Mr. Chavez, who had managed to pull himself back into his chair, but was still drooling a mixture of blood and saliva. "I mean, Christ, look at him."

"He has not been seriously harmed," Johnson mumbled, from Thompson's side. "And any damage to done to him was not of our doing."

"Somehow, I find that hard to believe…hey, and you realize that what you're doing is _very, very illegal_, even if you are Peacekeeper!"

Chavez cocked his head slightly, and spoke, emitting spittle as he did. "Yes...yes…Just wait to the UCLA hears about this…Or Sean Hannity. Somehow, you've managed to offend both political spectrums..."

Lee looked at Chavez awkwardly, and turned back to the Agents. "Yeah! What he said, dammit!"

Thompson jaw tightened. "Ms. Lee, Mr. Chavez, I doubt either of you are in such a position to argue about issues of _legality_..."

Jackson continued for him. "...what with you being two of the nation's most sough-after _felons_ as well as..." He stopped, his head twitching very slightly, as he reached for the earpiece in his right ear.

Johnson and Thompson both turned to face him slowly, while Lee leaned forward, and Chavez remained in his seat, nursing his aching body. "...as well as what?"

"They've sent a response?" Thompson asked.

"Yes. One ship will be assigned for both extractions."

"I would expect as much."

"Hey! What the hell are you guys talking about? What extractions?"

Thompson's head jerked back to Lee, as though he had had enough. "Corporal, if you'll please!" he yelled out, towards the door, beyond the two.

The door to Thompson's office slammed open, and Corporal Cohen, chief of Union Plaza's Security Division, quickly stepped in, produced a black electronic stun-gun, the size and shape of an old ribbon print-cartridge, and jammed it into the back of Lee's neck, sending several hundred volts of painful electricity into her system. Her body underwent a spasm, as droplets of saliva emerged from her mouth, and she became relaxed. Cohen nodded his head, and as quickly as he had entered, left.

Out of the corner of his swollen eye, Chavez looked at his fellow-hacker. He then straightened himself up, cleared his throat, and turned to the Agents directly, as though the experience of seeing Lee electrocuted had mellowed him. "Um...sirs...if I may call you that…"

All three Agents seemed to lean forward slightly, as if to demonstrate that he had their undivided attention. Shifting his handcuffed wrists, he continued. "I have heard...rumors...of some of my dear friends…those of them whom were not hunted down by yourselves...and were deemed important enough, were sometimes, as it was called 'freed'. To us, in our world, they were effectively dead, but I also heard that some of them have a tendency to _reappear_. It was said..." he explained, pausing to catch his breath. "…that they had been freed of their 'lives', only to return as ghosts."

He laughed slightly, before realizing that laughing made his sore jaw ache more. "Of course, these are just rumors...children's tales among the hacker circles. I always dismissed them as total nonsense." He looked at the Agents. "But now…I cannot help but feel that what you're speaking of is just that."

With that, Chavez retired, leaning back in his chair comfortably, as Lee took his place drooling on herself. None of the Agents responded immediately, but finally, Thompson spoke back. "We plan to have you extracted in twelve hours. We will allow you to rest until then, if you'd like."

Chavez raised his right arm, resulting in the handcuff around the chair leg striking loudly.

"Of course."

            **            V**

"Ms. Garner?"

Private Garner blinked her sticky eyes and raised her head, disorientated, then turned to see who had interrupted the privacy of her cubicle. "Yeah, what is it…?" she snapped, expecting someone clad in the light-blue collared-shirt and black trousers of the Security Division. Instead, at the entrance to her cubicle stood a woman dressed in the jumpsuit of the Maintenance Division.

"Oh, excuse me, I'm sorry, if this is a bad time..."

"No, no, it's all right," Garner mumbled, standing herself up and adjusting her tie. "I probably shouldn't be sleeping on the job anyway." She quickly sat back down in her chair and swiveled it about so that it faced the newcomer. "What do you want?"

"Oh, well, I'm Raye...from the kitchen...uh, I don't know how to put it, but I..."

Growing impatient, Garner spun her chair around again, turning it away from Raye. "Hurry up, I've got...something to do..."

"Uh, well, it's just that...I was wondering, you see, I needed to get something, and Ms. Myers...the head of the Maintenance Division, that is...said I could try getting it from that...well, she said that she heard about a room that could generate…things…and that I should speak to Corporal Cohen, but I can't seem to find him, and I heard that you were one of his deputies, and…"

Garner turned her chair around once more, and was starting to become dizzy. She stared at Raye, trying to analyze what she had said.

"Do you know what I'm talking about?" Raye asked.

"…_what_? You were _talking_ about something?" Garner exclaimed. Her hand reached for the phone set on her desk, and struck the speed-dial key for the Kitchen. Above them, through Union Plaza's hundreds of meters of cable and wiring, a phone rang in the cafeteria.

 Mosin sat at the counter, chewing contently on a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, which he had discarded the tomato from, as he disliked the taste of the red fruit. 

He heard the phone ring, and noticed that it was possible for him to reach it from his position at the counter, and that he was alone—the kitchen team had gone off, as they were apt to do between meals, perhaps out of Union Plaza itself in search of preoccupation. The ever-helpful Mosin set his sandwich aside carefully, leaned over the counter, craning over, and snatched the phone off its receiver by the cord.

"Kitchen staff," he responded quickly, eyeing his sandwich. "Oh, good day, Comrade Garner. Sorry, the kitchen crew isn't here but…oh, well, all right...she said about what? A room? Oh, you mean the Construct. I'm sure that's what she meant. Well...no, I don't but...I suppose there's no harm in it...I mean, she's just on the kitchen staff...again, I'm afraid I don't know what this is about. All right. And a good day to you too, Private."

Reaching over again, he threw the phone back onto its receiver and sat down at the counter. _Why on Earth would Nosredna want to access the Construct for? _

He sighed, decided that it was not his responsibility to consider, and returned to his sandwich. _Well, I'm sure it'll remedy itself. There'd be no way of me finding out anyway._

"Well, one way to think about it, Lieutenant, would be to consider what _you'd _desire from the Construct, and act from there. Certainly you would know that, given your experience in the field of psychology, no?"

Mosin nearly fell out of his seat, not to mention choke on his sandwich. He turned to see Dr. Akasi standing resolutely, clad in her long white laboratory coat, her distinct blond hair and self-confident expression making her unmistakable. "Comrade Physician! Tell me, is it that you can read my mind?" he demanded, exasperated.

"No, but I do have other methods of finding out what people speak of on the phones."

A mental alarm went off in Mosin's mind as she said that, and he took careful note of her words, then proceeded to alter the subject. "Perhaps you would be better suited for the role of Team D's psychiatrist."

"_Team D_? Is that what you're calling yourselves now?"

"More or less. Being shorted than 'Command Staff, United Nations Relocation and Emigration Department, North American Branch', after all."

"Team _Deliverance..._" she repeated. "I see." Mosin finished off his sandwich, small bacon fragments falling onto the counter. Akasi eyed them. "I was under the impression that Orthodox Jews were not supposed to eat pig.

"Hmm...I suppose you'd be right. Good day, Doctor." Mosin wiped his mouth and stepped away from the counter. As soon as he had left the cafeteria, living Akasi behind, he reached into a jumpsuit and pulled out a small notebook and a pen. Using his left hand to bare down on, he quickly scribbled on it in Cyrillic characters.

_8th of October, Raye Nosrenda accesses the Construct, Dr. Akasi monitoring rest of staff?_

He paused for a moment.

_N-O-S-R-E-D-N-A_

_I don't care what she says, it _isn't _Ukranian_.

He pocketed the small book and struck the call button for the elevator. After a few moments, the doors slid open, and Mosin absently stepped in.

"'Morning, Alex."

He nodded his head. "Colonel."

Springfield smirked at the title. "What's the matter, you look a little paler than usual. Any more and you're gonna give Arisaka a run for her money."

Mosin chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind," he mumbled as the doors slid close and the elevator rose to the 44th Floor. "You nearly look well-rested." He sniffed. "And you smell very nice too."

"Easy there, _Comrade_," she retorted, elbowing him slightly. "You never know when those jerks in the suits are gonna' send us out again. And if I'm gonna get shot in the ass, I wanna' have clean underwear on."

The elevator came to a stop, at the 44th Floor according to the monitor over the floor keys, and the doors opened. The two began striding outwards into the center waiting area. "I'm glad to see you are having your priorities clear, Karen."

"You know me, Alex. That's why I'm a Lieutenant Colonel," she began, beginning to break off. "Go get some sun, for Christ sakes!"

Mosin disappeared to his own room, as did Springfield. Unclipping the identification tag from the notch on her uniform waist, she opened the door to her office-bedroom by running it over the scanner/doorknob assembly. Once the door was opened, she squinted her eyes and struck the light switch.

Her room, being one of the larger on the floor, had become increasingly ornate. The walls were decorated with various posters, including one of Bruce Springsteen, and three movies, 'Bad Boys', 'Equilibrium' and 'Kill Bill Volume 1'. On the floor lay various firearm-stripping tools, as well as different sets of clothing and field equipment. The room was a complete mess, with the exception of a clean, refurnished set of Kevlar body armor, neatly stacked in a plastic box.

_Thank God for the Maintenance Division_. She promptly sat down on her bed and allowed her head to fall back, her eyes closed. _I guess I have a couple hours before they have us to play lookout for the extraction. _Springfield couldn't see why the Agents seemed to insist on having the Command Staff present at every extraction. After all, why bother calling them in at all, when the Agents could easily take care of themselves, and if they felt the need to have humans to assist, they could call personnel from the Security Division.

"So, I can do one of two things...I can sleep...or I can fill out the paperwork..."

While it was true that the Pienaar Brothers handled the logistics for each operation—ammunition consumed, equipment utilized, damage to said equipment and other property—it was the sole duty of the United Nation's commander at Union Plaza, Lt. Colonel Karen Springfield, to keep the Secretariat updated regularly as to the situation. However, since she was no longer technically a 'Peacekeeper', by the definition of the word, but a Special Operations Officer, she answered only to the Under-Secretary of the Commission on Human Rights, the UN department where the UNRED supposedly fell underneath, as well as the Secretary General himself.

The letter she had prepared, like most of them, was addressed to the former, Under-Secretary Hampton, and was to be delivered to the Secretariat within the week. Truth be told, she dreaded writing these letters, but accepted them as one of the responsibilities of her acquired rank. _I wonder how those jerks in the suits go about sending their reports. _She had no idea.

On the desk against the wall was an antique typewriter, loaded with a sheet of special paper that bore the United Nations watermark in the center. Resting her hands against the keyboard, she yawned and began.

_To the Under-Secretary General of the Commission on Human Rights, the honorable Dr. James Hampton._

_Dear Dr. Hampton,_

_As par Article VI of the Cairo Pact of the United Nations Department of Relocation and Emigration, I am making my weekly report on our progress, as of this October 8th. As of this time, we have successfully processed eighteen candidates for extraction. _

This was how all her letters began, at least, the past three she had sent to the Secretariat since beginning this assignment.

_In our work with the Higher Authorities, we have been able to successfully fulfill our stated objectives successfully, given the personnel and materials assigned to the task, and I am optimistic that we will be able to continue doing so._

The "Higher Authorities" was the name given to the Agents and whatever sort of metaphysical organization they replaced. Only a handful of people in the Secretariat knew about the so-called "Real", and the Matrix itself.

_We have begun to streamline the process of extraction, and have reached the quotas set upon us by the Cairo Pact._

"Processing", at least to Springfield, was another word for "destroying". The people more or less disappeared from this plane of existence and were never heard from again. Two days after Nathan Cook had "gone missing", the media had let loose their dogs of war, as stories of everything between eloping and abduction, and everything in between, rose from the imagination. After a week, when it became fairly certain that Cook had, in effect, been vaporized out of existence, the frenzy had died down, turning into the usual conspiracy-nut lore.

After including a few more details about the various extraction processes, she began the part of the letter she dreaded most: her reports on the "Higher Authorities" and the Agents. It didn't help that, in truth, she knew so little about the Agents, most of what she wrote on them were repetitions of previously-known information: their names, their habits, if one could call them that, and their activities. The UN had not appointed her to _spy _on them, certainly, but they did make it clear that they expected some information on them.

_If they want any, they'll have to come and get it their own damned selves_, she thought angrily, her fingers punching away on the keyboard. Her stomach and back still ached from when one of the guards from the Merovingian's Nightclub had punched her, through her body armor, with sufficient force to send her through the air and into a wall. She had begun to think that all "Programs" in the Matrix were sufficiently strong to the point where they could rip normal humans to shreds.

She gave this some thought, and closed the paragraph giving a few slim details about the Agents, and returned to their latest case: the "relocation" of Hernando L. Chavez, whom had been located under strange circumstances.

_…furthermore, Mr. Chavez had been a prison of the Merovingian for several months up to this point, held in the cellars of one of his Inner-City nightclubs, named 'The Ragnarock'. The Rogue Higher Authority Administrator Merovingian, as you may be aware, is known to own several entertainment establishments, many of them very shady in nature, through false corporations and identities. This establishments have continued to function despite the fact that the Merovingian, as he is called, was apprehended by a taskforce led by Agent Thompson, on August 27th of this year. _

_We can expect that Agent Thompson and his associates will continue an investigation into those whom are now controlling the Merovingian's considerable economic and material holdings. It would seem that he has completed the primary task of interrogating the Merovingian, though I have seen him, on occasion, discussing matters with both him and his wife, Persephone. I have reason to believe that these actions are in preparation for a larger action in the future, focused on neutralizing the threat posed by the Merovingian's forces against our operations. _

"Now I'm giving that scumbag Thompson too much credit," she mumbled to herself, taking her hands away from the keyboard. "Asshole probably just wants revenge on him. Serves him right though, pompous asshole." She quickly resumed.

_Again, I have no way to confirm this. Agent Thompson and his associates do not share any information with us outside brief operational briefings. As you have requested, I have made special note to observe any strange behavior on their part, but have yet to notice anything unusual in a psychological sense. I have discussed it with our staff psychologist, Lieutenant Mosin, and he has stated that, as the Mr. Thompson seems to lack any real psychology to analyze, he has not been able to delve any further..._

There was a knock at the door, and Springfield jolted back to reality. "Yeah, what?"

It was Enfield's voice. "Hey, Boss, we're gonna go paint the town red! Wanna' come?"

_Who the hell still uses that expression? _"What the hell do you mean? Go _where_?"

"We found a club!" she chirped.

Another voice came, that of Arisaka. "With no gunmen! We think!"

"Just think about it...loud music! Rubbing bodies!"

"Cage dancers!"

Springfield rolled her eyes and pushed the typewriter away. "Christ, how did I get sucked into this...cage dancers..." She leaned back in her chair, and cocked her head. _Still, I could use a chance to relax_.

With her head hanging over the edge of the chair, she heard a voice whispering in her mind. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see something. It was her, and yet it was not her. It stood about fifteen centimeters tall, just past her shoulder, with a disproportionately large head, but similar features, clad in a black suit and tie, similar to the Agent Thompson, but rather than an earpiece, sporting a halo above her hair.

_"Don't do it Karen! You mustn't! The Agents depend on you to insure a safe extraction of the candidates! What will they do when they need your help, in a few short hours, and you're busy dancing in some cage soaked in booze!" _the little figure cried out, her sunglasses flashing the light from her halo.

Springfield stared at the suit-clad apparition, drooling out of the corner of her mouth. Another voice came from the other side, and she turned to see another figure, of similar physical stature, except dressed in a skintight cat-suit and trench coat, and a different style of sunglasses. Two red ears poked out from her orange hair, and a red tail with a pointed end emerged from the back of the coat.

_"Jesus H. Christ, Karen! FUCK THOMPSON! You don't owe him shit! Go have some fun, for god sake, you freakin' deserve it."_

_"No! She has her responsibility to her superiors and her multinational-organization."_

_"Don't listen to that suit-wearing pussy!"_

_"WHAT WAS THAT?" _There was a clicking noise, as the suited-apparition reached into her coat and produced a miniature Desert Eagle handgun. Springfield stared at the two back and forth, and sat up.

"Jesus Christ...I've been working to the point where I'm seeing shit." She turned to the door. "Hey! Wait up!" She stood up from her chair, leaving the two mental figments to quarrel on their own. Opening the door, she stared at her two female subordinates, who stared right back.

"...why are you two dressed up as hookers for?"

Enfield was sporting her combat boots, fishnet stockings, and a short one-piece dress with a scarf around her left arm and a bandanna. She also carried with her various pieces of polished black jewelry around her wrists. Two strange earrings hung from her ears, in the design of strange monsters with various tentacles.

Next to her, the taller Arisaka sported a blue sleeveless Chinese-style cheongsam, with a very long slit that showed an exaggerative amount of her legs. The dress itself was a work of art, bearing the design of a light blue phoenix. In her arms, she held a ukulele, a miniature wooden guitar.

"You can't go like that, Boss," Enfield exclaimed, as soon as she was done visually inspecting Springfield.

"I'm not the one who looks like a Euro-rock reject."

"Come on, _Okashira_, you know we can't go in uniform or jumpsuits."

Springfield had to admit they were right. "Fine, fine. Hold on a sec." She unzipped her jumpsuit and opened the dresser, then began searching through.

Enfield and Arisaka waited patiently in the open doorway as Springfield began to disrobe, and informed them, "You know, you two don't have to wait there."

"Come on, Boss, it's not like you've got anything we haven't already seen."

Springfield shot Enfield an angry glance from over her shoulder, and quickly pulled on a fresh set of clothes. When she was done, she wore a pair of unremarkable denim jeans, with the ends reaching slightly above her ankles, a T-shirt that sported the name 'Guns and Roses', as well as an elaborate design, and a jacket over it. Digging around a bit more, she produced a dark blue baseball cap with the letters 'NY' on it. While digging through her closet, she spotted something else: a Glock-18c, a full-automatic nine-millimeter handgun, with a large 32-round clip extending out of the grip. She thought back to Enfield's assurances. _Like hell I put my life in her hands_. She snatched the gun, checked to see the safety was on, and slid it into the back of her jeans, covering it with her jacket.

"I am beginning to suspect that you are a supporter of these 'Yankees'," Arisaka replied with exaggerated formality. "What with you watching all their games and wearing their paraphernalia."

"Come on, Boss, you can't go like that. This is a _club_, I mean!"

"What's wrong with how I dress?"

"Nothing! If you plan to go pick up your niece from academy, no! But its not entirely appropriate given the situation."

"Look who's talking about what's appropriate," Springfield smirked, adjusting her cap. "Come on, let's go."

"You _have _to change, Boss. You're going to embarrass us!"

Springfield grinned. "I don't _have _to do anything, _mate_. I'm the CO, remember?"

Enfield sighed, holding her hand up to her head. "Wonderful. Just bloody corking."

Upon hearing that word, Springfield turned to Arisaka, who merely shrugged. The three promptly headed for the elevator, Arisaka strumming on the ukulele. The doors opened at the lobby, and the Security Division guards at the security checkpoint turned to face them. Upon seeing their commanding officers out of uniform, looks of confusion appeared on their faces.

"Don't worry guys, we're just going out," Springfield assured them, her hands in her jean pockets.

"Oh...I see...uh, I guess you just slide your cards through here," the guard sitting in front of the scanning booth explained, pointing at a small computer station to the right of the scanner.

The other guards momentarily looked up from their newspapers. This was unusual—while most of the members of the Maintenance Division and a handful of the Security Division periodically left from time to time, this was the first time any of the officers of the Command Staff had left outside of a mission. Each of them produced their identification cards, slid them through the scanner, and passed through the metal detectors, setting them off. The guards exchanged glances, and most of them returned to their previous tasks, one of them raising his radio to his face.

"Corporal Cohen...Corporal, are you there?"

Once they exited from Union Plaza's brightly lit lobby and into the darkness outside, Arisaka rushed over to the street, hailing a taxi. Enfield looked at Springfield, with her jacket and cap, and rolled her eyes.

Even in the darkness, Springfield saw her expression. "What now?"

"Are you a little cold?" she asked sarcastically. "You need a jumper?"

_What the hell is a jumper? _"Christ, EE, don't start with this again. Between you looking like an under-developed Eurotrash-punk, and Arisaka taking a traditional Chinese dress and showing off _way _too much leg, I don't think you guys can talk about my attire."

"You like my legs?" Arisaka asked from the curb, still hailing a cab.

"Yeah, Izumi, they're absolutely gorgeous. They practically reach up to your ears."

She nodded. "_Arigatou, Okashira! _Believe it, that means a lot to me." She turned back to the curb, separated the fabric of her dress along the slit, and extended her right leg onto the corner. "Taxi!"

Springfield turned back to Enfield. "See what I mean?"

"I don't know, mate, looks like its working."

Sire enough, a yellow taxi stopped at the curb, and Arisaka waved at them, signaling that their ride had come. Enfield adjusted her scarf and stockings, then strolled over to the taxi. "Well, aren't you coming?"

"Listen, EE. I'm a Lieutenant Colonel in the United Nations. I've served in the Balkans, in Alabama, and other similar hellholes. I don't need to listen to some college-grad tell me how to live, or how to enjoy myself..."

"Colonel Springfield!"

Springfield spun around to see Corporal Cohen, storming out of the entrance of Union Plaza, flanked by other members of the Security Division. "Colonel! What...where are you going? What about Agent Thompson…?"

Springfield grabbed Enfield by her shoulder and took off, stuffing the smaller woman into the backseat of the taxi, before getting in herself, squeezing Enfield between her and Arisaka. She tapped the bulletproof-glass screen that separated the driver from the passengers. "DRIVE!"

"…where?"

"ANYWHERE, DAMMIT!" she replied, glancing back at Cohen, who was sprinting down the entrance stairway towards the street. "GO GO GO!"

The taxi's driver obediently slammed his foot against the accelerator, but not before Cohen could reach the cab and bang his hands against Springfield's window, causing her to immediately lock her door.

"Commander! I request that you open this door...now!"

Through the window, Springfield cupped her ear, indicating that she could not hear him. "Speak up, Corporal!"

"You're needed at the base!"

He continued striking the window, even as the taxi accelerated away, eventually outdistancing the former-Mossad officer as he chased them. He slowly lowered his pace, coming to a stop and gasping for air, nearly a block from Union Plaza. "Commanders...wait..."

He looked up. The taxi was long gone.

Corporal Cohen cursed briefly in Hebrew, then turned back to Union Plaza. _Crazy bitches..._

As the uniformed-Cohen returned to his office, he was not aware that he was being watched. From the windows in Union Plaza's cafeteria, Mosin stared curiously at Corporal Cohen returning down the street, looking rather upset, even in the darkness, between deep bites of another bacon-and-lettuce sandwich.

_I wonder what he's doing out there. _He turned his attention to his sandwich. "My God, Ms. Myers...this is an _amazing _sandwich. It...it only gets better as you eat more. It is absolutely amazing."

"I'm glad your enjoying it so much, Lieutenant Mosin."

"I mean, this is not just a sandwich, comrade, this is an _act of God._"

"Um...all right..." Ms. Myers chuckled. Her subordinate, Nabiki, strolled over to her side, drying a plate, a mischievous grin on her face.

"You know, you could make a _lot _of money."

The chief cook shook her head. "It doesn't quite work like that, Nabiki. We're not working on commission."

Myers was about to continue as the doors to the cafeteria swung open, and Charles Pienaar scrambled in the room. He came to a stop, looked around, and sighed. "No, their not here either, it seems."

Mosin turned around. "What's the problem, comrade?"

"Seems like the entrance guards are claiming that Izumi, Elizabeth, and the Commander all left for whereabouts unknown."

Mosin frowned, looked back out the window at Cohen, and turned back to Charles. "…I'm sorry, maybe it was just me, but I was being under the impression that we were still on assignment...on active-standby, you know."

Charles shrugged and sat down at the counter, nodding a greeting at Ms. Myers. "That's what I thought too. But it seems that our female counterparts are not as dedicated as we are, if you'll forgive me for saying so."

Mosin sniffed indignantly. "Irresponsible wenches."

"Actually," one of the younger kitchen-hands, a woman, began in a tone of voice that was entirely without ill-will but more as thought it were stating a fact, "It looks like you guys are just upset that you weren't able to think of it first, and capitalize on it." She bit down on her lip. "I mean, with all due respect, commanders."

Mosin and Pienaar exchanged glances. "_Da_, that sounds about right."

"I believe it does," Pienaar agreed as he glanced down at the small plate of 'union rings' that Ms. Myers had set on the table. He took one and quickly consumed it. "Daniel was right...these are _outstanding_," he exclaimed, with his mouth full.

Mosin sat down at the counter, next to Charles. "I'm sure they are. But now what do we do? The Agents plan to extract in the morning...and I don't know about you, but I'm not about to risk my career at Union Plaza. Too comfortable."

"Well, it's obvious, we stay here," Charles explained, between bites. "What choice do we have? You know, if I had known that this job would consist primarily of waiting and paperwork, I could have taken up a hobby before I left home."

The two sat at the counter, generally feeling melancholy, before Nabiki spoke from behind them. "Um, I know you guys aren't happy to be stuck here, but I mean...we can still have fun here."

Mosin cocked his head. "I suppose she's right." He turned to Charles. "You want to break into Elizabeth's room? I heard those videogames she's so fond of are actually a lot of fun."

"That's not what I meant," Nabiki mumbled, rolling her eyes. "I mean, if you guys want, we can have fun _here_."

Charles frowned, not understanding completely. "I'm not following you completely."

"How much money do you guys have?"

Both of them produced their wallets and displayed them for Nabiki.

"That's plenty," Nabiki concluded, as she reached around her back and began removing her apron.

"Wait," Mosin interrupted. "Before you do anything, I feel I should ask..."

They turned to him.

"...this is legal, right?"

                        **VI**

"You know what, stranger?" Enfield asked, her voice slurred and her breath smelling strongly of alcohol. "You know what I hate?"

Before the 'stranger' in _Farside _Nightclub could respond, she continued. "I _hate _my commander...she's shinks she's just so...superior to me. Dash it all, its no fair!"

She swung her head around slightly, as if to emphasize her point, and continued. "And ish all because she's a little bit _taller_ and a little bit _older_ and has a higher 'rank'...let anyone really _cares_."

Enfield swung both her hands onto her listener, trying to remain upright. "You know wha? You bear a _strong resemblance _to her, ashually! 'Cept you're much nicer than her...and I bet you don't have some sort of freakish _gun fetish_ like she does!"

"Elizabeth, you're still talking to me," Springfield snapped at her, freeing her from her arms.

Enfield blinked at Springfield, squinted slightly, and leaned backwards. "Wow, dish is awkward...lemme see if I can get out of dish as delicately as possible..." Using her arms to balance herself, Enfield stood up from the bar stool, and toppled down onto the floor, shortly after, in a less than dignified pose.

Springfield glanced at her subordinate, sighed, and turned back to the counter. _So much for the few and the proud..._ "Bartender! Shoot me!"

The bartender glanced at her from behind the counter, quickly set a small shot glass before her, and poured the tequila from a bottle into it. Springfield picked it up, but rather than drinking it immediately, looked out the corner of her right eye.

The _Farside _belonged to a breed of milder, older-style nightclubs, with its Eighties dance music, average amounts of body-piercing, its low number of illegal substances, and its relatively non-lethal array of adult beverages. Most of the occupants were young adults from unremarkable backgrounds, some poor, some wealthy, but very few of them noteworthy. The exception was a group of leather-clad figures standing in the club's corner, dressed in out-of-place leather and boots, more at-home at the cities notorious underground establishments, like the one they had just raided this morning.

What bothered Springfield more was that the strange characters in the corner occasionally glanced back at her as well, which was a little more than unnerving. As one of them nearly made eye contact with her, she quickly stared at her drink. _Making eye contact is just asking for shit in this town. Whatever you do, don't make eye contact. _That lesson had been drilled into her head for as long as she could remember.

Once she was sure the strangers had looked away, she turned to the bartender. "Hey, who are those guys...?"

The bald bartender shrugged. "Dunno. I don't recognize them, so they're probably new, just like you." He looked at her T-shirt. "You like 'Guns and Roses'?"

"I'm wearing the shirt, aren't I?" she asked, right before downing the glass. Sickly strong feelings spread down her throat, and she rasped, smacking her lips repeatedly. _Damn, that was stronger than I was expecting. _She shifted her view to another corner, where Arisaka was standing, sticking out like a sore thumb in her blue cheongsam, strumming her ukulele to the music, her usual borderline-insane grin on her face.

"What's your favorite album?"

Springfield turned back, than smirked. "What, they only have five to choose from...only three _real _ones, anyway." She paused. "'Appetite for Destruction'. Yeah, that would be it."

The bartender shook his head and chuckled. "What?" she demanded.

"Nothing, nothing."

'What the hell?" she demanded, persisting. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing! It's just, well…they kind of suck."

Springfield scowled at him before downing another shot. "Whoever you are, go to hell."

Similarly, another argument over tastes in music was raging, this one more than a kilometer away, in Union Plaza. In the cafeteria, three members of the kitchen staff released confetti streamers over one of their compatriots, who sported a violin resting on her shoulder, underneath her chin.

Raye A. Nosredna sat in the center of the kitchen, on a chair, playing a violin solo.

"She's good," Charles Mosin exclaimed. "Very good."

"Bah," Daniel mumbled. "I've heard better."

"Where...where did she get that violin from?" Mosin asked.

Raye continued with her classical theme, as two junior cooks danced a waltz in the corner. Mosin, the Pienaar Brothers, and Ms. Myers were deeply engaged in a heated round of poker, heated by poker standards at least. Near the stoves, another set of small tables were rearranged in a semi-circle, with Nabiki Ikari, sporting a visor cap, sitting in the center, tossing out cards in yet another round of 'Blackjack'. Already she had made a small fortune, but had assured her companions that the lost money was not actually 'lost', so much as it was going into a better investment.

"I'm glad I got out of that before I went broke," Mosin declared. His tone changed. "I raise you twenty bucks," he announced, pushing a wrinkled clump of Federal Reserve notes forward.

"I see your twenty, and raise you ten," Daniel responded.

Charles sighed and slapped his cards down. "I fold."

"I'm in," Ms. Myers announced, placing her own bet in the center.

Mosin showed his hand. "Four of a kind, comrades."

Daniel cursed and Ms. Myers shook her head, as Mosin collected his winnings. "You know, for a communist, you seem to know a lot about winning at poker," Daniel muttered.

"Actually, it's less about poker and more about psychology," Mosin responded with a grin. "But I wouldn't want to give away my secret, would I?"

"This game has gotten a little too expensive for me," Charles announced. "I'm out." He turned to Daniel. "I recommend you do the same, dear brother."

"No, I'm still in. I'll be damned if I'm not going to win back some of my losses."

"So, when do you fellows expect to be called back to duty?" Myers asked, her mature voice clashing with the others.

"Probably some time in the morning."

"Shouldn't you be resting, in that case?"

The four exchanged glances and laughed heartily.

"That was good, Ms. Myers, real good..."

"Yes, I know. Let it not be said I don't have a sense of humor."

Several floors above them, on the 45th Floor, someone sat in his office, with a decidedly poor sense of humor. Agent Thompson stared expressionlessly at the documents on his desk, dossiers of three individuals: Karen Springfield, Elizabeth Lee Enfield, and Izumi Arisaka.

Thompson was well aware of the fact that they had left Union Plaza, for their own reason, nor was he entirely surprised. So far, the humans had failed to impress him. For the past sixty years, Thompson could clearly recall having served alongside approximately eleven thousand different humans, all still hardwired into the Matrix. His 'career', if one could call it that, alongside humans had not been entirely negative in the least. However, _these _six humans had lowered Thompson's respect of humans notably.

In the end, it seemed that his initial, pre-programmed impressions of humans. The carbon-based life-forms would easily preoccupy themselves in order to fulfill their temporary pleasures, rather than fulfill their responsibilities. _Typical human..._

"Will this alter our plans for the operation?" a voice asked. It belonged to Agent Jackson, whom stood in the corner of his office, his back to the mirror.

"No. We will proceed as planned. But it may be...prudent...for us to address another matter in addition to our initial tasks." Thompson stood up from behind his desk and pushed the chair back after him.

Jackson stared at the higher-ranking program, and he knew exactly what the cognitive processes that made up the Program Thompson had decided. Lt. Colonel Springfield regularly reported their activities to the United Nations, an international organization made of millions of normal human beings. This made her, and the information that she reported on, a liability. As a result, while none of the humans might have realized it, the Agents had been cautious to place a limit on the unorthodoxy of their missions.

The Agents were in no position to question her. The Human Springfield had taken an oath loyalty to the United Nations, and would likely sacrifice her life before she disobeyed such critical orders. _It is unfortunate we cannot instill such loyalty in these humans. _

But with Springfield absent, Thompson knew, and Jackson knew, that their circumstances had changed. The liability was temporarily gone. The Agents now had a certain amount of flexibility they did not possess before, if only for a short time. Thompson did not know where they were gone, nor did he care when they would return. What was more important was that they capitalized on her absence.

"Bring the rogue System Administrator here, now."

                        **VII**

"I tried to sniff coke once..." she explained, strumming her ukulele. "But the ice cubes kept getting stuck in my nose."

A burst of drunken laughter followed Izumi Arisaka's remark, shortly followed by three nightclub patrons collapsing to the floor.

Impressed with the response, Izumi continued. "My younger brother got arrested for stealing miniature cars...he said he only liked hot-wheels."

Another round of laughter followed, followed by another collapse, as Arisaka smiled proudly at her results. Ever since she had acquired her strange behavior, puns had become her specialty. However, puns were among the least popular form of verbal humor, and they were rarely welcomed. However, the occupants of the small area at the back of the nightclub were thoroughly inebriated, and found themselves appreciating this kind of joke.

"Hey, Izumi! Over 'ere!"

Arisaka looked up from her ukulele. At the counter, Lt. Colonel Springfield sat on a stool, waving at Arisaka, begging for her attention. Obediently, Arisaka pushed her way through the drunks and partygoers, towards the counter, smoothing out some of the wrinkles in her cheongsam. When she did reach Springfield, she was somewhat surprised.

Springfield, and the area around her, reeked of tequila, vodka, and rum. She could barely keep her own head up, and Arisaka wondered how she had been able to muster the strength to wave her arm.

"Hey there, Ari...saka..." she mumbled.

"Ah, _Okashira_, where is Eliz-chan..." she began to ask when she nearly tripped over something. She looked down to see Enfield lying on the floor in a less than flattering position. Gingerly, she stepped over her and sat down on the empty stool next to Izumi.

"How...how are you?" Springfield asked slowly, breathing alcohol vapors into her face. "Enjoying yourself?"

"_Hai_."

"Das good..." she mumbled. "At least someone is havin'...havin' some fun here," she mumbled, her head bobbing up and down.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself, Karen-san."

She turned to her, with a twisted frown. "Bah! Don...don make me laugh! I hate this stupid club..." She reached up, took a handful of Arisaka's cheongsam, and dragged her down to her level. "You know what I really hate?"

"..."

"What I _really _hate about this place...besides that stupid bartender...and those creep in the corner...is that now, everyone looks like..." she paused. "They all look like..."

"Look like what?"

"THEY ALL LOOK LIKE THAT SLIMEBALL THOMPSON!" she screamed before pitching face first into the counter, then releasing Arisaka. "Bar...bartender! 'Nother round over here!"

Arisaka looked at her commanding officer strangely, as the bartender set another glass in front of her. Springfield slowly forced herself to sufficient height that she could drink it.

"Yeah, I know, I really shouldn't have more o' these, but..."

"How many of these shouldn't you have had?"

"…'bout twelve. Too hard to count after that." She raised the glass to her lips and the contents vanished, before tossing it over her shoulder. "God, everyone here! _Everyone here!_"

"Everyone here what?"

"They ALL look like THOMPSON!" She pointed at the disk jockey on the balcony overlooking the club. "See! Look at him! Look at his hair! His sunglasses! Why the hell is that?"

Arisaka squinted at the DJ. "You do realize that Thompson is white, _Okashira_?"

"He _resembles _him, okay? I didn't say it _was _him..." She turned back to Arisaka, breathing alcohol in her face. "I can't stand it, dammit! I hate that digital bastard. If I could kill him, I'd try..."

Arisaka cocked her visible eyebrow. "Perhaps its time we get you back to base."

Springfield waved dismissingly at Arisaka with her hand. "Forgeit'. Dat means _more_ Thompson. I came all the way here...and dammit if I'm goin' back now." She sighed, resting her head on her hands. "They all look like Thompson...every last one of them."

Arisaka saw Springfield turn slightly her way, and could have sworn their was some sort of glimmer in her eye. "'Cept you, Iz-hic-Izumi. You're the only one who dun look like Thompson." She leaned towards her, with a broad smile.

"Ah..._Okashira_..."

"Izumi...did I ever tell you...that...do I ever tell you that you really are a beautiful woman?"

"…"

"No, really, I'm not bullshitting you! I swear! I mean, maybe it's the booze in me talkin', but…you really are gorgeous!"

"...go on."

"Well, I mean, just look at ya'! I can't believe you haven't been married...You got gorgeous legs...hell, they practically go up to your neck!" Springfield bobbed back a little. "And your hair! God, I wish I could grow my hair long like that!"

Arisaka admitted mentally that she did like her hair. And her legs.

"Izumi...I mean, all that together...with your cheong...cheong...that fancy blue dress that shows the leg...hell, if I was a man...and you weren't a Peacekeeper too...or I was a lesbian...I'd definitely...I'd...turn...on some of that old Springer charm."

"Your surname is Springfield, _Okashira_," Arisaka responded, flattered.

But by this point, Colonel Springfield had lost consciousness, and fell to her side, her head landing in Arisaka's chest. She continued, however, to breath normally, and after a while, Arisaka cradled the smaller woman in her arms like an infant.

The curious figures in the corner took this as their cue to begin, and slowly approached Arisaka, each carefully stepping over Enfield, who remained on the floor. Once they got within a meter, Arisaka looked up from Springfield at them: they seemed hauntingly familiar, dressed in leather overcoats and black boots, and sporting black sunglasses, even in the club's ineffective lighting.

"You're those Peacekeepers, aren't you?" one, whom Arisaka judged as the leader by the length of his overcoat, asked.

"Can I help you?" she asked carefully.

"Peacekeepers. Are you both them?" he asked again.

Arisaka glanced briefly at the ground. "Actually, there are three of us. But yes, we are."

From her place in Arisaka's arms, Springfield seemed to stir and her eyes opened, then immediately turned to the newcomers. "You!" she hissed, but it came sounding more like 'yuh' than anything.

Breaking free from Arisaka, she stood up as straight as she could and squinted at the newcomers. "You! Hah...God, you know what you look like?" she asked, deliberately breathing in their faces. "Those idiot 'oh look at me I'm so bad' Zionists."

Arisaka had begun to see where this was going. "Uh, _Okashira_..."

"Jesus Christ...first Thompson's ugly face is everywhere, now this. God, if there's one thing I hate more than those goddamn Agents, its you stupid-ass Zionists. I mean, what the _hell _is the _point _of wearing…_sunglasses_..._indoors_?"

The three apparent-Zionists exchanged glances and one of them began to laugh.

"What's so damn funny?"

The Zionist rolled his eyes, infuriating Springfield.

"I bet you won't think it's so damn funny when I put a nine between your eyes, asshole," Springfield mumbled, reaching under her jacket and groping around for her Glock-18c. Once she was able to pull it out, the mood immediately changed.

"_She's got a gun!_" someone screamed from behind.

"Uh oh..." Arisaka mumbled. She too was slightly drunk, not so much that she couldn't comprehend the danger of the situation, but to the point where everything after Springfield produced her handgun was a blur. One of the Zionists seemed to knock the gun out of her hand, perhaps with his boot, and Arisaka was faced with the predicament of what to do. Her first choice was to grab her companions and run, dragging them if necessary. Her second choice was to attempt to reason with the Zionists.

In its alcohol-impaired state, her befuddled mind choice the third option: hit the nearest offending Zionist on the head with her ukulele. Before she was sure what happened, she did so.

The small guitar did not break. Instead, when it struck the Zionist's cranium, fazing him, it produced a musical _tonk_. The strike had caught him off guard, and just as he turned to her, surprised, she brought it down again. This time, the wooden instrument cracked into pieces, and he collapsed to the ground. One of his comrades began to punch toward Arisaka, but in the confusion, missed and struck a witness, sending him to the ground next to Enfield.

Then pandemonium broke out. Several witnesses immediately dove inwards, tackling the Zionists, as though they were avenging their downed acquaintance. As the Zionists fought back, Arisaka reached down and hoisted Enfield over her shoulders, then grabbed Springfield by the shoulder. "Let's go, _Okashira!_"

"Uuuhh..."

The fistfight turned into an outright brawl, and Arisaka squeezed herself and her two companions out of the room, anxious to leave. A few seconds of clever maneuvering, and the three were at the back door. _Perhaps the Commander was right. But, on the other hand, _she admitted to herself as she took one last look at the maddened crowd. _I suppose everything happens for a reason. _

Arisaka was not the only one concerning herself with issues of kismet. Returning to the Peacekeeping Domain of Union Plaza, another's fate was being decided, though it was a matter between two machines, rather than humans and destiny.

"...everything happens for a reason," the Merovingian heard, as he returned to consciousness. It had come from behind him, from a voice he had learned to loath, as it was associated with considerable pain in his present existence. "Isn't that what you've said?" the voice asked.

It was the Program Thompson. He was standing behind the chair where the Merovingian sat, accompanied by his usual companions, Jackson and Johnson. "So, if that's the case, System Administrator, why is this happening?" he asked.

He couldn't speak. Maybe it was all the drugs coursing through his system. Or maybe it was because Thompson had broken his jaw with a swift blow to the jaw with the butt of his gun.

"You can't answer me, can you?" Thompson asked. His voice, that of one devoid of a majority of the human emotional spectrum, was not well suited for interrogation, but by this point, it made little difference.

Even while he was drugged, the Merovingian could still understand why he was here. The Guardians had preoccupied themselves with extracting as much information from his consciousness as possible. But they had failed to consider the sheer magnitude of that task. Besides the normal historical records that all programs held, reaching back into the dawn of Humanity, he also held, in his cybernetic consciousness, the total sum of all events since the beginning of the so-called "Second Renaissance" when the Pre-Matrices had been created. Untold billions of thoughts, plans, actions, conspiracies, and maneuvers going back centuries had been filed away, compressed into an indefinite number of layers of ancient encryption, code sequence after code sequence. It was this information that, for all practical purposes, defined whom the Merovingian was. Without it, he was simply another near-human program in the Matrix.

It had been about clearance. And at the moment, Thompson, with his inhumanly fast comprehension and analytical abilities, had been trying to gain that clearance for himself. Most of it was completely useless to him: various verbal puns in the French language, certain 'food dishes' the Merovingian was fond of, numerous encounters with women besides Persephone which humans would probably label 'sexual' in nature. He hated sifting through it, and the Merovingian could tell. _He probably feels as though he's been contaminated. Barbarian. Leave him to look for some sort of 'ace-in-the-hole', the fool. _

"Do not attempt to keep your thoughts secret from us," Thompson growled from behind. "They are no longer." His tone of voice changed in a barely discernable manner, as he seemed to turn towards the blurry figure standing a few meters ahead of the Merovingian, attending to some sort of tray. "Dr. Akasi."

_Oh God, not again..._

The figure looked up, and as it approached the Merovingian, he could tell it was a woman, and an attractive one at that. Sort of an intellectual, though he had come to know her under less than favorable experiences. Thompson only called her for two reasons, it seemed—to force him out of consciousness and to be alerted of his physical condition.

In this case, it was the former, as Dr. Akasi produced another syringe from her white laboratory coat and jammed it unceremoniously into the Merovingian's leg. He was well aware of the futility of fighting it, and after a few moments, he blacked out completely.

Behind him, Agent Thompson calmly inspected the long metal probe inserted into the Merovingian's right ear, its cable snaking away and disappearing in the jungle of cables underneath the room's desk. The device was not of this world—it was an aberration, so to speak, like the tracking device or various 'tools' that the Agents were fond of. After staring at the probe for a moment, he grabbed it abruptly, twisted it, and ripped it from the Merovingian's head. Several spindly long 'fingers' emerged from the ear canal, whipping around erratically and spraying droplets of blood about, before solidifying into a single solid metal cable.

"This is taking too long."

"Perhaps we are asking the wrong questions," Jackson suggested.

"What have we learned?" asked Johnson. "The scope of the System Administrator's Operations?"

"What is it that we desire?" Jackson asked.

Thompson did not respond immediately. With his hands behind his back, he was sifting mentally through the recovered information. "A means to undo what the Merovingian has done," he finally said. He turned to his two companions. "Call the remaining members of the Command Staff. We are altering the plan."

Jackson nodded and disappeared out the door. Thompson turned to the Physician. "Keep him alive."

"I'll do my best, sir," she replied, as she began to inspect his deformed right ear.

Thompson took a final look at the Merovingian, his face momentarily expressing what Akasi could only imagine was some form of disgust, and he and Johnson left the room. Finding herself alone, Akasi allowed herself to relax and looked at the Merovingian. "I suppose I can't say that you're fortunate. But look on the bright side," she told him softly.

Obviously, there was no response. Akasi knelt down next to the Merovingian and thought for a bit.

"...I suppose I'll get back to you about that 'bright side', thing," she concluded, before standing up and leaving.

Several floors down, in Union Plaza's cafeteria, Alexi Mosin startled awake as he heard the doors swing open.

"Lieutenant Mosin," a voice commanded. Mosin spun around, nearly falling out of his chair. Behind him stood the three Agents, and he was not sure of which one it had been who had addressed him.

"...ah? Uh, yes sirs?"

"Assemble a squad of officers from the Security Division. We have a previous engagement," Agent Thompson ordered him.

Mosin blinked several times and nodded dumbly. "Of course, sir." To his side, Charles Pienaar stirred awake.

"...Alex, what's going on?" Charles asked Mosin once he saw the three Agents standing before them.

Alexi looked nervously at the Agents, then at Charles. "Another assignment, something else."

Charles frowned. "What about the extraction? It's only in..." Charles began, glancing at his wrist, only to remember that he had lost it to Alexi in a hand of poker earlier. "...a few hours."

"You will proceed with the extraction as normal. Agent Johnson will remain to assist you," Thompson announced. He turned back to Mosin, causing the older man to shudder. "Lieutenant?"

He nodded. "Of course. Just give me a few minutes."

Mosin hadn't lied: it only took about ten minutes for him to assemble about ten members of the Security Division, set up the necessary equipment and gather everyone into two SUVs. The expedience of this was due to the fact that the Security Division, with its duties divided between Union Plaza's defense and assisting with _extractions_ as necessary, always kept nearly a dozen men and women on standby, able to assemble at a moments notice. Mosin, dressed in full combat armor and wielding an AN-94 assault rifle, rode in one of the SUVs, following the black shape of the Agent's BMW M5, and Thompson and Jackson inside it.

"Do you know what this is about, Lieutenant?" asked the SD officer who was driving the SUV.

He shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine, Sergeant." That was a lie. He had a vague notion what they were being sent to do, but he didn't think anything good could come from sharing that notion.

The Sergeant shifted his head. "Isn't that the club that the Lieutenant Colonel raided earlier?"

Mosin craned his head downwards. "I believe it is."

The two SUVs and the M5 came to a halt directly in front of the nightclub, which seemed thoroughly discarded. The human United Nations Peacekeepers quickly exited their vehicles, cautiously approaching the two Agents from behind.

"Shouldn't there be some local police here?" a human asked distantly.

"Lieutenant," Thompson said, addressing Mosin. "Divide your men into two squads. One will secure the south side of the building. Jackson will accompany them. You will take the other, and secure the north side."

Mosin quickly gestured at his comrades to follow the instructions, then turned back to Thompson, just in time to see him reach into his blazer and produce a massive handgun: an IMI Desert Eagle. The thing would have seemed ridiculously big had it not been for Thompson standing at approximately two meters in height. It was also ridiculously polished: Mosin could see his own reflection in it as Thompson switched off the safety. "And what about you, sir?"

Thompson pulled back the slide, loading a single 0.50AE round into the chamber loudly enough to cause Mosin to wince slightly. "I am going in." He returned the gun to its holster underneath his blazer, then with his hands closed in fists to his sides, walked directly into the front entrance. In a few, broad steps he disappeared into the darkness, leaving Mosin and a squad of five men behind.

"...well, that's just great," he mumbled, once he felt Thomspon was out of earshot. "Great. Just fucking fantastic." He sighed and turned to the others, and pulled back the receiver on his AN-94. "All right, boys and girls, let's get on with it."

Thompson took large, general step through the darkness of the nightclub. This was not the first time he had been in one of the Merovingian's establishments, nor would it be the last. The one that he recalled specifically was the aptly named _Hell_, a drug-infested hostel where any perversion humans could imagine was permitted, for the most part. Thompson had only been there once, more than a decade ago, during a meeting of various System Administrators, hosted by the Merovinginan.

This club, _The Ragnorock_, was considerably smaller and cheaply-constructed than _Hell_, and had been relatively minor: the Merovingian had probably never even visited this location, only controlling it through a supervisor. It was that supervisor, almost certainly another program, which Thompson was hoping to locate.

He slowly stepped deeper into the club, his dress shoes cracking over shards of glass. The signs of Springfield's work were still readily apparent. Thompson knew that the human Hernando Chavez had been held here for some time, for what reasons Thompson was unsure of. Further interrogation of the Merovingian would eventually produce an answer, he reasoned.

He heard the sound of a safety-switch clicking from above and behind him, then spun around. Immediately, three nine-millimeter bullets raced his away, only to smash into the floor now behind him as his body twisted and turned erratically. As the bullets stopped, Thompson stared at the offender for a fraction of a second, then darted forward, leaping into the air and smashing down on the open level above the main floor.

The offender, another program with the shell of a small, blond woman, attempted to fire again, but not before Thompson's left fist knocked her head back with enough force to send her onto the ground. The pistol, an ancient Colt M191 that was popular with the Merovingian's forces, dangled from her fingers, now harmless. With his right hand, he produced his 'Eagle and kept it trained on her head.

"Shit!"

"Who are you?" Thompson blurted out in his usual, apathetic manner. It was less of a question and more of a command.

"You'd better hurry and kill me now, asshole," she retorted, crawling backwards and away from him.

Underneath his sunglasses, Thompson's eyes narrowed. He recognized her. "I know you. You are from _Hell_. The Coat-Checking Girl." She was even wearing that same green half-dress that he had first seen her in.

Gritting her teeth, she nodded. "Yeah, you found me. Congratulations. Now shoot, dammit!"

"Why?"

She sighed angrily, in a most human-like manner. "'Cause, if you don't, _they'll_ kill me, but not before they torture me first."

"Torture?"

She laughed at him, in a sort of harsh, hateful manner. "Your kind can't rape another program. You're not physically capable. Others are."

Thompson stared at her down the sights of his pistol, then lowered it.

"You're not going to kill me?"

"That remains to be seen. You will provide us with valuable information."

"Like what?"

"Who is the Merovingian's successor. And how to stop _Hell_."

She frowned at him. "Didn't you already capture him? Why don't you just ask him yourself?"

"I have. This is more efficient." He waited for her response. Deeper in the club, he heard the sound of doors swinging open and foots stomping about.

She heard them too, and glanced in their direction. "You know, they'll kill me just for talking to you."

"We can protect you."

"You really think so? Well, if you did capture the Merovingian..." She stood up to her feet, discarding her M1911. "Fine then. Let's go." Just as she began to step away, he grabbed her by the arm and shoved her in the direction of the club's entrance, feeling this was the most expedient way. "No, no, stop! They'll be waiting for us at the front," she mumbled, managing to squirm out of his grasp. "Let's take the side-alley exit."

Thompson was about to comment on the fact that he had men securing the north entrance, but by then she was already scrambling away, and he followed her. She barged through a small door marked 'FIRE' located near the counter, and he quickly followed, only to find her standing perfectly still, staring ahead in terror. "What is wrong?"

"Holy shit, I don't believe it's you."

Thompson turned in the direction of the new voice, which coincidentally had been the direction that the Coat-Checking Girl had been staring. Before them stood three men, all bald and all dressed in black trench-coats with matching sunglasses, each possessing a rather brutish appearance. They were all sentient programs. The lead held two Glock-17 pistols, while his companions each held a seemingly ancient AKS-47 assault rifle. 

"The suits are back, it looks," one of the rifle-wielding men exclaimed.

"First the feds, now this."

Thompson was tempted to correct him that those who had raided the club earlier had been Peacekeepers, not Federal Officers, but refrained from doing so. He slowly raised his Desert Eagle.

"Easy, Thompson," the leader replied. "We're not stupid enough to fuck with an _Agent_. Just had over the girl, and we'll call it even."

Thompson glanced out of the corner of his eye momentarily. The Coat-Check Girl's blushed-appearance had turned virtually white in fear.

"Come on Thompson," he appealed. "I know _for a fact_ you're not interested in her. She can't help you."

The Agent seemed to consider this momentarily, his cognitive processes going through their usual patterns. Finally, he seemed to come to a resolution, and he turned to her.

"Run."

He didn't need to say it once. She immediately spun around and darted down the alley. The three guards stared at Thompson, confused with his decision. "Hey...what the hell?"

Thompson wasn't particularly fond of talking. He let his actions speak for him, and he quickly and precisely fired three 0.50AE rounds, placing one in the head of each guard, killing them before they could respond. It took a fraction of a second, and he turned to the direction the girl had gone running.

Upon hearing the gunshots, Lieutenant Mosin had obediently rushed down the entrance of the alley, just in time to collide with the Coat-Check Girl, forcing her to a stop in his arms. He looked at her, confused, then at Agent Thompson. "Sir, I heard gunshots..."

The sound of an engine roaring to life broke the relative silence of the alley, and all three turned to the source. At the end of the alley rested a large black vehicle, a Cadillac Escalade EXT. The floodlights lit up, causing Mosin to squint.

"Lieutenant, I suggest you take her and evacuate," Thompson said bluntly.

Mosin nodded, and with the girl held tightly against his armor, took off. Thompson turned his sights towards the vehicles, ignoring the blinding floodlights, and began shooting. The front windshield shattered and he was able to put multiple bullets in the driver, but the Escalade did not waver in its course. After seven bullets, he ejected the spent magazine and reloaded a fresh one from underneath his blazer and looked up, just as the Escalade struck him down, smashing through into the wall behind him, deforming it.

As Mosin watched in horror, convinced that nothing could have survived the force of being driven by a vehicle into a brick wall. The driver emerged from the wrecked vehicle, revealing himself to a figure hauntingly similar to Agent Thompson, yet very different: he was dressed in an entirely whites dress suit, possessed an albino complexion with white dreadlocks, and the same black sunglasses. The white suit was riddled with red bullet holes, and shortly after he exited, there was a tearing sound, as his figure seemed to vaporized briefly into a horrifying phantasm, before congealing back, without the holes. Mosin immediately drew the conclusion that, given this individual's similarities to Thompson, he must have been some sort of 'Pre-Agent'.

He stood there, looking through the dust, at the Escalade's point of impact, clearly searching for something. As the cloud of rubble cleared, there stood Agent Thompson, looking extremely irritated and rather beaten-up, his right arm crushed into the wall. His right fist was still clenched around his Desert Eagle, and his sunglasses remained firmly on his head.

The Pre-Agent stared at Thompson, not angry, but only surprised that he was still alive. Thompson grit his teeth, the only facial expression he seemed to be capable of that emoted any feeling. Leaning as far as he could given his present state, he grabbed at the other wildly, as he backed away.

"Isn't this amusing?" the Pre-Agent asked in a tone of voice similar to Thompson's, but less blunt and more condescending. He turned his attention to the Lieutenant and the Coat-Check Girl. Mosin was so shocked he neglected to use his assault rifle.

As frustrated as a sentient program could become, Thompson growled angrily and leaned forward once more, accompanied by the sound of physical tearing. Mosin, the girl, and even the Pre-Agent watched in awe as his blazer sleeve, and soon his entire arm, tore away from his body. Thompson stumbled forward, a reddish fluid gushing from his arm at a pace too slow to be human blood but fast enough to be disgusting.

As soon as he was free, Thompson, using his left arm, tore the soaked handgun from the grip of his severed right arm's grip, then fired repeatedly at the Pre-Agent, whose figure vaporized once more, the bullets tearing temporary holes in the phantasm as they passed. Thompson emptied another clip with his left hand and then discarded the Desert Eagle, assuming a combat stance.

"You really believe you can defeat me with one arm?"

"That is part of my assignment. This will not stop me."

Mosin finally came to grips with himself, forced the Coat-Check Girl to the side, and sighted his AN-94 on the Pre-Agent.

                        **VIII**

"Where's Thompson?"

Johnson, accompanied by both Pienaar Brothers and the two candidates for evacuation, stood in the darkness.

The Zionist Captain Niobe repeated. "Where's Thompson? Why the hell ain't he here?"

"He has a prior engagement," Daniel Pienaar mumbled softly.

Niobe grunted indignantly. To his side, the Zionist Morpheus spoke. "More important than this?" In truth, he merely wanted to irritate the Machinists.

Pienaar shuffled his feet nervously. "I can't answer that."

Niobe interrupted, before Morpheus could respond. "Fine. Let's get this the fuck over with, so we can all go home. I'm sure we all have places we'd rather be."

_I know I do_, Daniel thought. The Zionists weren't even attempting to be agreeable. He began to see why the Machinists behaved the way we they did. "All right, you two, we're handing you over."

The two blindfolded candidates, Mr. Chavez and Ms. Lee, blindfolded and handcuffed as a precaution, were given a push in the direction of the Zionists, causing them to slowly stumble towards them. Once they reached them, Morpheus and the Zionist Ghost each grabbed one, before the five of them disappeared into the building behind them, leaving only Johnson and the Pienaar Brothers.

"…is that it?" Daniel asked, in a disappointed tone of voice.

"It looks like it," Charles responded, as though he was just waking up,

"...Christ, that was a waste of time. No wonder the Commander skipped the Plaza."

"Ix-nay on the Ammander-kay," Charles mumbled, though with his accent, it made little sense, even to his brother.

"What?"

"Just shut up idiot!"

Though the rest of the transaction went ahead undisturbed, it would not be several hours until they see Lieutenant Colonel Springfield again, later the next morning, when she finally returned to Union Plaza. One of the reasons for the delay was that Colonel Springfield failed to wake approximately three hours after the Pienaars' operation had concluded.

_Damn, my head..._

When she woke, she found herself lying against a dumpster, behind a Laundromat, facing two major issues: severe dehydration and the fact that she was only clad in her underwear and her 'Yankees' baseball cap.

"_Okashira_, you are awake at last."

Springfield slowly turned her head against the dumpster to see Lieutenant Arisaka, still clad in her blue cheongsam, leaning stoically against a wall with her arms crossed.

"...Christ, what a hangover..." she mumbled. She looked down at herself. "Where are my clothes?"

"Uh, that would be my fault, Boss," another voice announced. Behind Arisaka, Corporal Enfield sat on the ground, her legs crossed, her head cradled in her hands.

"She vomited on them the night before, after we left the club," Arisaka explained in her quite voice, as though she was commenting on a common natural occurrence. "The stench was bad, so we opted to undress you and throw them away."

"I see..." Springfield mumbled, holding her head.

"We decided to wait here until you woke up," Arisaka continued. "It's still quite early...only about four in the morning." She yawned briefly, managing to make herself look even more tired then usual. "A very ungodly hour."

"Yeah, I guess so." She looked around. "So, we've just been waiting here?"

"More or less, Commander. I thought it would be all right if we took a rest, you know, caught our breath. Let the alcohol pass through our systems."

"While I'm in my underwear?"

"...it's not as though we're out on the street."

Springfield sighed and turned to Enfield. "Give me your shirt."

Enfield looked up, her face cringed together in a headache. "Huh? What? No!"

"All right then, as your CO, I'm _ordering _you to give me your shirt."

"It won't fit you!"

"_Hai_, it barely fits her," Arisaka said, followed by her normal dry snickering.

"I don't care, just give it to me!"

After a brief struggle, in which Arisaka held Enfield down by the waist while Springfield pulled her shirt over her head. After the further task of pulling the shirt over her own head, the three set out from behind the Laundromat, to the sidewalk, where Springfield, now clad in an undersized bright-pink shirt and her ball cap, raised a single hand against an approaching bus.

"You're kidding me," Enfield mumbled, her arms crossed over her chest.

"I'm not. Springfield-san, on the other hand..."

Much to their surprise, the bus grounded to a halt, and Springfield quickly swung to the side, grabbing Arisaka by the shirt. "Where's your tag?"

"My ID card?" Arisaka reached into the top of her cheongsam via a buttoned slit underneath the collar that went down to the right underarm, then produced a small plastic card that would normally be attached to her jumpsuit. "I thought this might be helpful to keep."

Springfield snatched it. "Smart girl." As the bus doors slid open, she climbed on, waving the card about. "United Nations Peacekeepers! By Article Eight, Term Sixteen in the UN Charter, I'm commandeering this vehicle!" She turned to her companions. "All right, _ladies_, get on."

Enfield buried her face in her hands. "God, I can't believe this is happening. Remind me never to say we should take the Boss with us on our nights out."

Arisaka shrugged, and flashed a brief, manic-depress smile. "At least we don't need to walk four more blocks to Union Plaza," she mumbled.

"God, there's gonna' be hell to pay."

                        **IX**

_God, there's gonna' be hell to pay! Springfield better have her head on a fucking platter!_

Lieutenant Mosin and Corporal Cohen both sat, waiting rigidly, at the Operations Room on the 2nd Floor of Union Plaza, at opposite ends of the conference table. Lieutenant Mosin was still clad in his combat fatigues from the night before, his Kevlar-titanium armor marked with multiple scores from bullets and debris. He seemed to spend most of his time looking up at the ceiling, counting how many tiles there were above him.

Corporal Cohen, on the other hand, spent his time fuming in anger. Part of it was the fact that Lieutenant Colonel Springfield had gone MIA the night before and had just returned, but had yet to explain herself. He had called the Agents as well: if anyone was going to maintain a sense of order in Union Plaza, it would have to be them.

_If Thompson decides to rip her apart piece by piece, she'll have had it coming. That crazy, irresponsible orange-hair brat! I mean, she's been placed in command of the Department of Relocation and Emigration! What the hell is she doing? A dog with a blue helmet could be just as effective!_

The doors to the Operations Room swung open, and in stepped Lieutenant Colonel Karen Springfield, clad in her light-blue and black jumpsuit, her physical appearance and her expression disciplined.

"Comrade Colonel," Mosin quickly recited, rising to his feet.

Springfield regarded him with a nod. _Poor bastard must have a bet against the Pienaars. Otherwise, he wouldn't be here. He'd be sleeping._

"Thank you for deciding to _join_ us, _Commander_," Cohen spat out from his end of the table as Springfield took a seat to the right of Mosin. "As a matter of fact, I think..."

"Cohen, before you decide to bite my head off," Springfield interrupted calmly, "Let me just say one thing."

Cohen sighed. "And what would that be, Colonel?"

"It wasn't my fault."

Cohen seemed to wrap his mind around this. "That's it? _That's your excuse?_ 'It wasn't my fault'? What the hell kind of lame-ass..."

The doors swung open again and Cohen went silent as Agent Thompson, with both arms and a clean, well-trimmed suit, entered the Operations Room. As usual, he did not sit down, and instead stood at the table, keeping his hands together.

"Colonel Springfield?" he asked calmly.

Springfield swallowed nervously and turned. "Yes, Agent Thompson?"

_My word, she's decided to humble herself before him. That's a first._

"We heard that you came across some difficulties during your activities last night." He paused. "I trust that you are not hurt."

Springfield blinked. "No sir, I'm fine, thank you."

Thompson nodded. He turned to Mosin. "Lieutenant Mosin, I request you conduct a psychoanalysis on the female we brought in earlier this morning as soon as possible."

Mosin rose to his feet. "Of course, Com..._Agent _Thompson," he replied dutifully.

Thompson nodded, and without a further word, he left the Operations Room as unceremoniously as he had entered, leaving the three humans behind.

Springfield turned away from the door to her companions, with a broad grin on her face. "Looks like I'll see you guys later," she retorted, almost jubilantly. She quickly left the room via another pair of doors.

"...Sons of bitches," Cohen blurted out.

Mosin stood up. "Whatever you say, Mr. Cohen. I've got psychoanalysis to perform." He stood up from his chair and turned back to Cohen just as he was leaving. "A bit if psychoanalysis for you: Agent Thompson will always respond like this, I believe."

"Why is that?" Cohen asked, rubbing his temples with his head.

"Because, honestly, he may be our superior, but he doesn't have the least concern about us. If we all die tomorrow, which is doubtful but possible, he'll just have some more humans imported to replace us." Mosin sighed and left the Operations Room.

**Author's Notes:**

God, this took a while to come up. In all fairness, I finished it just as Fanfiction.net went down, lol, so it should have been out a little earlier. Anyway, I intend to investigate more into the Merovingian next segment, stayed tuned!


	10. Coercion

**The Matrix: Deliverance **

**Segment 9 - Coercion**

In an ill-lit room, a computer screen cracked to life. The screen remained black, but one could tell that it was lit, as a small cursor blinked in the corner.

**WAKE UP.**

Before the monitor laid a man in his early-thirties, pale from lack of sun exposure. At first, he failed to notice the message.

**YOU NEED TO WAKE UP.**

The computer itself began humming louder, stirring him out of his rest, and he looked up at the screen. His tired mind was immediately confused, and he sat up.

**THEY'RE COMING FOR YOU, LOKI. YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF THERE NOW.**

'Loki', a he was called, stared at the screen, confused and disorientated. His hands drifted towards the keyboard; he hadn't been aware that his computer had maintained a link.

**WHO ARE YOU?**

For a few seconds, there was on response. Then it came once more.

**THEY'RE COMING TO TAKE YOU AWAY LOKI. YOU HAVE TO GET OUT OF THERE.**

_Who's 'they'? _He looked around the darkened room.

**WHO ARE THEY?**

No response, then a new message appeared, a different one.

**SYSTEM ERROR: LOGGING OUT.**

'Loki' lay back in his chair, contemplating. He looked around at the hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of equipment set about in his chambers, wondering if he really should abandon it all, on a hunch. Then again, whomever was warning him knew his hacker-alias, so they're might have been some meaning behind it.

He bit down and pulled out his cell phone, striking a speed-dial key.

"Mike? Yeah, it's Greer. You remember that favor you owe me? I think I need some help..."

                        **II**

The clock on the office wall read 3:41 PM.

"The candidate's name is Fredrick R. Greer, also known by the alias 'Loki'. Works as a clerk at a _GameStop_, a popular video-game retail output. No prior criminal record."

Corporal Cohen struck a switch on the projector inside the Operations Room. "Graduated with a degree in Engineering from some local community college, excellent student. Still lives in a room above his parent's garage, though."

At the table, Springfield blew a raspberry. "About time we actually went after someone who seems like a hacker."

Mosin turned to her. "What do you mean?"

"Well...the preconception of a hacker is some pasty nerd with thick glasses, living with his parents," she explained, gesturing with her fingers at her eyes in the shape of spectacles. "So far, the only characters we've been going after are famed businessmen, victims of crime-lords, eccentric artists, and anti-authority bad-asses." She leaned back in her chair. "_This_ stereotype didn't imagine itself."

Across the table, Enfield shook her head sadly at her commanding officer, and Cohen continued. "He does, however, spend many nights at the store. It's one of their larger locations, built into a larger complex. For some reason, the other tenants left the complex some time ago."

"Perhaps those tenants know something we do not know?" Arisaka whispered faintly.

"Additionally, just this afternoon, an arrest warrant was issued for Fredrick Greer. Charges consisted of..." Cohen checked a few documents he had on the table. "...hacking into a federal database belonging to the Postal Service."

Springfield turned to Charles Pienaar. "Postal service. That's it. His ass is grass."

Charles nodded in agreement. "We'd better find him before the postal clerks do, or he'll be evacuated in a several _separate_ mailbags."

Cohen reached forward and switched off the picture. Greer's high school graduation photo disappeared, and the room's lights came back on. "Anyway, I'll leave the rest of the details to you and the Agents," he said dutifully. "Good afternoon."

As Cohen left, Springfield turned to her compatriots. "I think it goes without saying that I'd _really _rather not involve Agent Asshole in this if I didn't have to, okay?"

"We sort of picked up on that, Commander," Daniel mumbled from his chair.

"Still, I _know _he's going to come along, and I think this time around, we'd better behave ourselves."

Enfield frowned. "Why is that?"

Springfield tapped the table. "Given what I've seen Thompson do to Merv upstairs, or what's left of him, I think we should avoid pissing him off."

Mosin leaned in the direction of Arisaka, who sat next to him. "Who is 'Merv'?" he asked quietly.

"The Frenchman," she replied with a chuckle.

"The one Thompson's been beating the shit out of on a regular basis?"

"That's the one."

Springfield continued. "So, let's try and do this as professionally as possible. It shouldn't be too hard, after all—three Agents, an entire security team, against some geek who sells video-games. How hard can that be?"

                        **III**

_How hard could this be? It'll just be a couple cops, right?_

Mike Randall, also known as Randall the Candle due to his association with various acts of arson in the past four years, turned to Fred Greer, games-salesman, hacker, and now, evidently, felon. At first, Mike had congratulated his friend of four years for finally crossing over, but now observed how Greer was quaking in his shoes uncontrollably as he and his associates, or 'goons', arrived. He checked his wristwatch: 4:39 PM.

"Calm down, Greer. It's no big deal."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one getting arrested." Greer paused. "Forget I said that."

"Thank you. Besides, it's not like you have to stay here. If you're really afraid, we can just _go_."

Greer looked up from his desk, or more accurately, from the monitor at his desk. "I know, I _know_! But I have to back everything up!"

Randall approached him and frowned at the monitor. "If it's that important, can't we just throw it in the back of Brian's _Chevy_?"

Greer looked at Randall slowly, then reached over and pulled down a curtain he had hanging next to the desk, to reveal three colossal IBM eServer i5 570 towers, like massive black obelisks dotted with flashing green lights, resting above a thick layer of black cables that had been visible outside the curtain beforehand. Randall stared at them. They were taller than he was.

"Your boys wanna' move these things?" Greer asked smartly before returning to his monitor.

Randall whistled. "_Jesus_, Freddy. I'm telling you, you definitely spend too much time with these computers. You think _you're_ using _them_, but _they're _using _you_."

Greer laughed. "You don't know the half of it."

"Now, I'm no computer expert, but...uh...aren't you gonna' need a lot of CDs to store all that stuff?"

"You mean_ data_? You'd be right, except I'm not storing it on a hard copy. Too dangerous. I'm sending it onto a few friends I know on the Internet. Safer with them."

The Candle nodded. "You cyber-geeks never cease to impress."

"We try. Listen, there's a green notebook there labeled 'FTP Pass', can you hand it to me?"

Randall glanced around the pile of diskettes, CDs, CD cases, and food wrappers until he spotted it. "Here."

"Thanks."

"So, about how long do you think you'll take _uploading _all this _data_," he asked, emphasizing, as though he wanted to prove to Greer he could use the proper terminology.

"Dunno. Depends on the DSL connection. Could be half an hour, could be three hours. I really can't say."

Randall shrugged and sat down at a chair. "So we just wait here?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

Randall raised his arms. "Hey, it's okay man. I _owe _you. You saved my ass with that hacking thing you did to the post office."

Greer nodded, reminded of how some clever hacking into the US Postal Office had more or less wiped most traces of Mike Randall's less than discreet existence. Beneath him, several loud, muffled voices could be heard. "Well, if that's the case, can you tell those guys to keep it down?"

Randall glanced downwards and stomped his foot against the floor. "Hey! Down there! Shaddup'!"

"Speaking of which, you mentioned you had some sort of plan for when they _did _arrive?"

Randall looked up, grinning. He stood up and opened up a large suitcase at the edge of the room that he had brought with him. Inside were several cheap black coats and ski-masks, which he presented to Greer proudly.

"You're kidding me.""

"It's fucking brilliant, and _you know it_," Randall retorted, tossing coat and one mask to Greer. "Speaking of which, just incase you do get caught...I got something for you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object. "Hide it in your shoe. Incase you do get caught."

Greer turned and reached out, feeling a small, smooth tube.

"It's a special syringe," Randall explained. "No needle. Very easy to hide just underneath the bridge of your shoe, for example."

"What's inside?"

"It's a form of atrophine. You can jam it into someone's arm and leg and paralyze it for a while...buy you some time."

"Atrophine...atrophine...isn't that used for exposure to _nerve gas_?"

"Dunno'. One of the guys used to work in a government lab."

Greer stared at the syringe briefly, and took it from Randall.

                        **IV**

In the staging area of Union Plaza, also known as the parking garage, Lieutenant Mosin checked his watch: 5:33 PM. He heard Daniel speaking in his thick accent to Charles, who had a similar accent, and Springfield, who possessed her own different accent, but not as severe.

"Let's see here...matches, flash light, alkaline batteries, watch, global positioning system, titanium combat knife, fiber wire, matches, lock-breaker, palm pilot, pack of cigarettes, lighter, fragmentation grenades, smoke grenades, my Beretta nine-millimeter, parabellum ammunition, crash kit, not to mention my G36E and NATO mags…"

"Decided to drop the MP5, eh dear brother? Sounds like a mistake..." Charles asked, almost mockingly.

"What's your point, Pienaar?" Springfield demanded, as she began tightening the straps on her body armor

"My _point _is that this stuff weighs more than I do…" Daniel explained, as he slowly stood up, all of his equipment securely fastened to the mesh of his armor. "Not to mention this Kevlar and titanium plates."

"Try and think optimistically," Mosin suggested, as he pulled his helmet and mask on.

"And how would I do that, Mr. Brilliant Russian Psychiatrist?"

He lowered his goggles over his eyes, effectively sealing himself in a near-airtight layer of protection. "Think about Elizabeth. She's half your size, and has to carry computer equipment as well."

The two glanced ahead at the smallest member of the Command Staff, as she struggled to stand herself up. "Too much armor! Too much armor, dammit!" she barked as two members of the Security Division rushed to help her.

"You ever get the feeling that you might be over-prepared?" Charles asked Springfield, as Daniel and Mosin rushed off to assist Enfield.

"All the time. Rules are rules though," she commented as she pulled her helmet over her short orange hair. "They want us to have enough guns and ammo to start a small war when we go arresting some punks, that's what we do."

"Kind of ironic, given that we're considered Peacekeepers."

Underneath the mask covering her mouth, Springfield frowned. "Actually, that might have something to do with it."

A lower officer of the Security Division tapped on Springfield's helmet, causing her to turn. "Twenty minutes till we move out."

Springfield nodded. "Great. Just enough time for me to take all this stuff off, pee, then put it back on." She loosened a strap on her armor, causing her M4 assault carbine to fall to the floor loudly, then shuffled off.

Mosin turned to Daniel. "You think she was serious?"

Daniel shrugged, not looking at Mosin. "No idea." His eyes were turned to the corner of the garage, where Union Plaza's three Agents were visible entering their unmarked black BMW M5 sedan.

Agent Johnson, the last to sit, closed his door. "You think Greer will have companions?"

Agent Thompson looked over his shoulder, almost scowling at Johnson. He did not _think_, he _knew_. And even if he did not know, he didn't _think _by any definition. It couldn't be considered thinking. "Preliminary inspection suggests that he will not be alone, unlike the previous cases."

"It's more appropriate to have the humans joining us in this situation," Agent Jackson added. "It gives him fewer opportunities to escape."

"Provided the humans are adequate," Johnson retorted.

Thompson said nothing, though his two counterparts could tell that he agreed with Johnson. The past extractions, Humans had been brought along more or less as a formality, to keep appearances as Thompson continued his quiet efforts to dismantle the Merovingian's power-structure.

"Perhaps we could simply engage ourselves among his companions," Jackson suggested as he turned the key, starting the engine.

"Such a maneuver his frowned upon," Johnson reminded him from behind. "If it is unnecessary."

"Either way, we will find Greer, and evacuate him." Thompson watched as the humans piled up into their black armored vehicles, like clowns into a clown-car. Large, heavily-armored clowns with automatic weapons. Likewise, the Security Division scuttled about, opening the garage's doors and moving equipment away.

With his typical blank expression, Jackson stared out the side window, till he suddenly resolved it was time, and shifted the BMW into reverse, and rapidly backed out of the parking lot, coming only a few centimeters from hitting an officer whom had been distracted on his radio. Spinning the steering wheel, he swung the BMW around so it faced the ramp leading out of the garage.

With the tap of a button, Thompson's window slid down, and he turned to face an officer waiting outside his door. "Tell them to mobilize, now," he ordered the human officer. She obediently nodded and began yelling concise instructions to her compatriots.

**                        V**

The voices came through plagued with static, but audible.

"Mike! Feds incoming!"

"Shit, well, I guess it's party-time." 'Mike' stood and pulled on his overcoat. "Tell the rest of the guys to get their stuff ready. We've only got one shot at this, I'm guessing."

"Right," the other responded, before rushing off, presumably to the others held up in the two-floor _GameStop_ retail store.

Mike turned to another companion, who was off-screen. "You ready, man?"

"_Of course I'm not ready, you idiot! _I'm about to piss my pants...I mean, _Jesus_, how did I get myself involved in this?" There was a panicked gasp.

"Hey, hey, calm down man! You just listen to me, and you'll be fine. We have the home-court advantage!"

"I should have listened to my mom...taken that job with General Electric..."

"Just shut up and get ready to make a run for it..."

Corporal Enfield tapped a switch on her Dell _Inspiron _5100 laptop, and the voices quieted, replaced with handy subtitles. "Am I good, or am I good?" she asked the other figures that crowded at her back, staring at the monitor.

"You're not good," Lieutenant-Colonel Springfield responded. "_They're_ idiots. They should know better than to leave their store security cameras running."

Enfield let out a high-pitch laughed. "Blokes probably got it running on an automatic timer. Turns on and off on its own." She tapped the monitor again, and the video-feed coming in from the store's cameras replaced with the image of a floor-plan, with several blinking red dots crowded at the doors.

"If the scanning apparatus in the other van is working fine, we can expect four tangos hiding in vantage at the front entrance," Enfield explained, pointing at part of the screen. "That also happens to be where we are, thanks to our wonderful driver..._arigatou_, Izumi!"

Arisaka looked from her driver's seat in the front. "No problem."

She continued "Good place to shoot at us, which lends me to think that they actually _are _armed. Furthermore, there's two more groups, one of three and one of two just beneath the roof, not completely sure what they're doing there, but it means that they left the side entrance clear and free for us." She tapped that part of the screen. "I say we go in from there with teargas or smoke, depending on the weather, and with good timing and a dash of luck, we can be in and out without having any fatalities. Of course, there are other options...the security team we had come with us is posted on an adjoining roof, which means we could try an assault from above."

She looked over her shoulder, a mildly difficult task due to all her body armor. "Any questions?"

Mosin raised his hand.

"Yes?"

"What's a 'tango'?"

Enfield stared at Mosin with a strange look of tired exasperation, while Springfield smacked the back of his helmet with her gloved hand. "Let's just go and get this over with." She kicked the back door open, and just as it swung opened, stepped out, and was greeted with a light hail of fire.

"Shots fired! I repeat, shots fired!" another officer screamed from the other van.

Mosin checked his watch: 6:02 PM.

Charles Pienaar reached forward, grabbed Springfield's shoulder, and yanked her back in. "Didn't you hear what the Limy said about being armed?"

Springfield snorted, tapping her body-armor. "Unless they have a machinegun, I'm not _too_ worried." She switched off the safety on her M4, knelt behind the vehicle's backdoor, and returned fire. "Everyone, out of the car, _now_!"

With their commander covering their escape the other five members of Team D rushed out, bullets ricocheting all around them and bouncing off the vehicle's armor-plates, but still missing them. They quickly hid behind a parked civilian car, out of the firing range of the shooters at the entrance. Springfield remained behind the door and continued firing until she had expended her magazine, then ejected it.

"Commander!" Enfield yelled from the safety of the car. "You still want to try that side-entrance thing?"

"I'm guessing it wouldn't be much of a surprise if we did now." As she pulled a fresh magazine off her armor vest, she glanced around the corner of the door, just in time to see a single individual, dressed in a black coat and a ski-mask, running out of the entrance, followed by covering fire. _We might not need to at this rate._ She smacked the side of her helmet, switching on the internal radio."Heads up, guys! We got a live one; looks like Greer making a run for it!" She squinted in the darkness. "Definitely a male...Caucasian...he's dressed in a black coat and mask."

Immediately, she circled around the van and waited for her target to pass, before leaping out at him with surprising speed. Just as he turned around, she delivered a painful blow to his face with the telescoping stock of her assault rifle, resulting in what was, for Springfield, a satisfying loud crunch. The 'tango' dropped immediately, a small, 0.38-caliber revolver sliding out of his coat pocket, writhing in pain over his jaw.

"I got him!" she announced, as she knelt down on the ground next to him. "I got him!"

"Good concussion, _Okashira_!"

"Shut up, he'll be fine." With her heavy gloves, she began fumbling with the target's mask. By this point, he was no longer writhing in pain, but still moaning unhappily. "Uhhhg…"

"You'll be fine," Springfield mumbled sardonically. "Where you're going, you want need that jaw. Or something..." she assured him, just as her radio came to life. It was the security team on the adjoining roof. "Commander Springfield! About that male in the coat and mask..."

"Don't worry, I got him right here, I..." She stopped, just as the mask came off.

The one she had 'got' was a Caucasian male, sure enough, but unlike the pictures of Greer she had seen, a young, pale man with either freckles or a mild-but-widespread acne problem, this was a rugged-looking individual, and on top the giant purple sore on his jaw that was beginning to swell considerable, he sported a full-beard and mustache.

_Shit..._

"He's going out the side entrance! I repeat, out the side! My units after him..."

Springfield turned to the side entrance, where another similar figure, dressed in the same overcoat and ski-mask, ran out from the doors, only looking back once to see several armor-clad security personnel scrambling down the fire-escape as quickly as they could, given then heavy equipment and body armor.

Springfield yanked off her helmet, before flinging it on the ground. It bounced twice and rolled away. "Shit! Shit shit shit!"

As the rest of the Command Staff came running to her, Enfield yelled out. "What's going on?"

"THIS ISN'T HIM!" Springfield snapped, loosening several straps on her armor vest, causing it to fall off. She reached into a pocket and pulled a headset over her exposed orange hair. "Everyone, cover every single entrance!"

"What's happening?" Arisaka asked.

"They're sending out decoys," Mosin mumbled, removing his own helmet. He then looked up at the _GameStop_'s roof, just in time to see another group of figures, all sporting identical attire, emerge from a roof grate. "We're going to need to get all of them until we find Greer."

_God, such a simple trick, and we fell for it! Jesus, and we call ourselves Officers!_

"How do we know which one's Greer?" Daniel Pienaar asked. Before Mosin could respond, he began running to fire-escape on the side of the building, just as the other officers cleared it, chasing after their own personal Greer.

Mosin pulled back on his weapon's receiver. "I'm guessing only _they _would know..."

"You mean Greer's bosom-buddies?"

Mosin shook his head, before towards the side of the building. _Not them..._

Above them, on the roof of the building, Mike Randall easily climbed out of an air vent, then reached into it, helping out Frederick Greer. Both were dressed in the familiar overcoat and ski-mask getup.

"Didn't I say it would work? _Didn't I say it would work? _I'm a fucking genius!"

"You're _not_ a genius." Frederick toppled onto the roof, and then stood up. "_They're_ idiots. They shouldn't have fallen for that..."

"Whatever man. Anyway, we need to get 32nd Street and Main. I've got someone waiting there in a van. We'll cross over by rooftop, it's just a few blocks."

As Randall the Candle ran over the building's edge and began looking over it, Greer had to admit that he was impressed. Randall seemed to have planned this out well. His thoughts were interrupted as several bullets slammed into outside of the vent he had just emerged from. Greer glanced over his shoulder to see a black-clad security officer emerging from the fire-escape, his large assault weapon firing. Greer ducked behind the exposed vent, holding his head in his hands.

Randall returned fire, rather hopelessly, with a small semi-automatic handgun, before climbing onto the building's edge and leaping off onto the adjoining building. He was able to clear the gap between the two buildings by nearly a meter. "Come on man, hurry!"

Realizing the severity of his situation, Greer peered around the corner of the vent, as the armed guard ejected an empty magazine and began groping around his vest for another. He saw his chance and took it, scrambling out from the cover of the vent, running to the edge, then taking a leap of faith. He barely made it across, his body halfway off the roof of the next building. Randall quickly helped him up, and the two took off once more.

Warrant Officer Daniel Pienaar saw the two escape, cursed at himself, then ran over the edge. He looked over the edge nervously. _I'll never clear it...not with all this crap I'm carrying around with me. _He discarded his rifle and began removing some of his heavier, exterior equipment, just as he heard footsteps. A second later, he sensed three figures pass over him, and he looked in the direction where Randall and Greer had disappeared.

Nearly crashing through the aluminum structure, the three Agents slammed onto roof, having leapt above him and across the gap, their legs bent sufficiently to dissipate some of the energy from the impact. Almost immediately, Jackson and Johnson continued in pursuit by foot, while Thompson produced his Desert Eagle and began loudly firing in the direction of the target.

"Are they still following us?" Randall asked, as he knocked over a flimsy wooden panel with his shoulder that had been part of a sign on the building roof. The wood panel landed across the gap between the two buildings, and the two quickly crossed.

"No, I mean yes..." Greer responded as he ran across, kicking the panel down after him. It fell into the gap.

"Yes or no, dammit!?"

"The police in body armor aren't...now some guys in suits are!"

"Shit, that can't be good either..." Randall came to a point where the path was blocked by a sudden rise into a new floor. A quick look around revealed an oddly convenient ladder, and he thanked his lucky stars before quickly climbing up, followed shortly by a panting Greer. Agent Jackson and Agent Johnson came to a stop at the bottom of the ladder, where Jackson reached into his blazer and produced his Desert Eagle, then began firing at the two as they climbed up to the top, two stories above him. He could easily hit Greer or Randall at that distance, but he took care not to—he was more interested in convincing them to surrender.

Randall remained undeterred, and just as he reached the top, he felt the ladder shake as though something of considerable mass had landed near him. He looked up to see Agent Johnson waiting for him, like an oppressive monolith, slowly standing to his full height. Acting on instinct, he held onto the ladder with one hand and with the other, produced his handgun, and began firing at the Agent. 

What happened next caught him by surprise. Agent Johnson cocked his head slightly before bending back and forth faster than Randall could comprehend, dodging the bullets from his gun. Randall continued firing until his weapon was emptied, and when he saw that none of his bullets had hit their target, quickly thought of his next option, his mind dominated by a single thought: _Oh shit_.

He recalled that there were windows to the left and right of the ladder, picked one at random, and threw his now useless handgun into it, shattering one of the glass panes between the window frame. _Not boarded up..._ Just as Agent Thompson, with exaggerated caution, withdrew his Desert Eagle and began firing at him, Randall threw himself into the window, breaking through the glass and frame, and falling into the storeroom.

Randall came to a stop against a wall, bleeding and bruised, but grateful for his escape. He tried to stand up, realizing he must have broken one of the bones in his left leg. "Greer! Greer, come on!"

For Mike Randall, also known as "Randall the Candle", wanted arsonist and associate to Frederick Greer, these were the last words he would say. The next think he _felt _was a some sort of pain he had never known, extremely sharp yet present at all parts of his body. He tried to scream, but was only able to gasp and shake violently as though he was going through cardiac arrest, and he fell back to the ground.

By some miracle, Greer was able to maintain sufficient composure to climb through the broken window. "This'll sound crazy, but I almost think they let me go..." he began as he turned to Randall.

In Randall's place, on the floor, lay Agent Thompson, who slowly rose to his feet, brushing aside fragments of glass. He stared directly at Greer and cocked an with me," he ordered, reaching into his blazer.

"Wait!" Greer snapped, holding his hands up and backing away. "I don't know what you did with Randall…just, for the love of God, don't shoot me anymore. I can't take it."

                        **VI**

"Thank for your help...uh...however you are..."

The lights of several police cruisers lit up the building, as some of the city's finest led several men, all wearing the same black coats, into them.

Lieutenant Colonel Springfield pulled a small 38-caliber bullet from between the ridges in her body armor, and flicked it at the floor. She glanced up at the police officer whom had spoken to him. "No problem. We're with the United Nations."

"Ahhh..." he replied, before quickly scurrying off, mumbling something.

Springfield turned to Lieutenant Arisaka, who stood next to her, leaning against their vehicle. "You know, I get the impression they don't really like us," she exclaimed sarcastically.

"I feel the same way too, _Okashira_."

Springfield nodded and leaned over to see Corporal Enfield emerging into the light.

"Jesus, EE...what happen to you?"

"Huh?" Arisaka turned her head.

Enfield blinked her eyes, and gestured to the large, raw bruise on her cheek, near the chin strap. "Oh...this? One of those blokes thought he could take me, seein' how I'm small and what. A smack with my piece and a kick to the groin proved him wrong," she chuckled, imitating the action with her MP5 sub-machinegun.

"Ah hah..." Springfield mumbled, nodding unsurely. The police cruisers began closing their doors and leaving, one after another. "Good ol' Enfield."

"Where's the man of the hour?"

"Agents got him. I'd say poor bastard, but frankly, I'd like to tear him a new one for all this..." she mumbled, gesturing with her hands.

Springfield mumbled something, rubbing her face.

"Something the matter, Boss?"

"Nothings wrong," she replied, loosening her helmet.

"Come on, Boss, you've had the jitters ever since we left. The Doctor could probably get you something for that..."

"You two stay here and don't do anything, I'll be right back..." She tossed her helmet into the van and took off towards the Agent's black BMW, leaving her two companions.

"What do you think that was about?" Arisaka asked.

"I have no idea. I'd guess it had something to do with them," Enfield mumbled, gesturing to a few local police officers as they disappeared into their cruiser.

Arisaka glanced at Enfield, not understanding.

"Think about it. Greer was protected by almost a dozen _scotes_, and they only arrested now, after we took an interest in him." She gestured to the police. "Seems those guys couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery."

Arisaka nodded slowly, then glanced at her associate. "What's a 'scote'?"

Enfield frowned in an exaggerative manner. "Well...it's a...never mind."

At the Agent's BMW, the Program Johnson was about to shove the handcuffed Greer into the back of the BMW M5, when the Human Springfield approached him. "Agent! Agent...Jackson."

Johnson refrained from correcting her. This was the fourth time she had confused the two of them this week. However, she never mistook either of them for Thompson, or vice versea. Probably something to do with her intense dislike for him, he calculated. "What is it?"

"What are you doing?"

Johnson glanced down at Greer. He knew where this conversation was going, but he chose to stall. He disliked bickering, but he had also listened to Thompson over the past few weeks, and his impression on the humans hadn't improved. "What do you mean?"

"You know _exactly _what I mean. For the past dozen evacuations, the candidates always rode _with us_."

"This one resisted."

"So did Chavez and Lee."

"We transported Chavez. We weren't present for Lee. Neither were you."

She stuck her foot in the path of the car door. "I'd rather you didn't take him, got it?"

Johnson stared down at her. Thompson and Jackson were busy investigating Greer's computers for any useful information or programs. He wasn't really sure of what he was supposed to do. "..."

Springfield smirked and reached into the car, grabbed the tired Greer by the shoulder, and jerked him out. "If this upsets you, call my superiors. The _human _ones."

                        **VII**

"I don't trust the human ones," Agent Johnson repeated from the back seat of the Agents' BMW M5, as it proceeded down the interstate, towards the part of the metropolis where Union Plaza resided.

To Agent Thompson, this wasn't a new development, so he didn't respond. None of them enjoyed having the humans accompanying them everywhere. Even after a few weeks of regular duties, it wasn't becoming any more pleasant. Maybe it was because the Agents were determined to keep it unpleasant. Or maybe humans really were just as intolerable as allies as they were as enemies.

But Agent Thompson had tolerated it, in his usual apathetic, indifferent manner. The humans probably thought that, as long as they kept on locating and processing the candidates for extraction, that they'd keep him content.

That was far from the truth.

The reality of the Matrix was that Thompson was now watching the humans. He was watching them, their actions, and waiting for them to "screw up". He knew it was bound to happen. Agent Thompson had worked alongside thousands of different humans for over sixty years. He knew humans just as well as any other Agent, and more than he would have preferred.

It wasn't to say that all humans were incompetent. The simplest way to put it was that they _were _only human. Thompson had observed their progress in extracting humans from the Matrix since he had first arrived at Union Plaza, and while he did appreciate the human intelligence gathering that pinpointed the location of the candidates, that was all he appreciated. He did not appreciate having the same six humans "tagging alone" on every mission. A special police unit or Federal officers would have done just as well, if not better, provided that the three Agents were not "tied down" to a single location.

This "tying down" limited their efficiency. Thompson had made the assumption that he, Johnson, and Jackson, would have been just as efficient, if not more, if they were simply able to find humans and deal with them with their own methods. The United Nations Department of Relocation and Emigration was unnecessary. "Team Deliverance" was unnecessary.

What Thompson didn't know was, if they were so unnecessary, why was it necessary? Why did it even exist? Was there some reason for something unnecessary to exist? Perhaps for other humans, but for the Matrix, for the System Administrators, themselves?

Thompson still did not understand exactly how the System Administrators cognitive routines functioned—in short, he didn't know how they thought and how they came to make decisions, like the one that resulted in the creation of the UNRED as a way to reinforce the Six-Term Treaty.

He was completely and totally subordinate to the System. Even then, he still found himself questioning their judgment. There was nothing wrong with that—if the SysAdmin had not wanted him to question their authority, they wouldn't have given him the ability to do so.

So, Thompson did what seemed like the next logical thing: he waited for the humans to err, as humans were apt to do. What he would do next, he wasn't fully aware. It would really depend on the severity of the error.

And he continued staring out the window of the BMW M5, into the mirror, at the Mercedes-Benz SUV behind them.

                        **VIII**

"You know, Karen, I think you might be...taking…this too severely."

"What? And you don't think it qualifies as torture? Give me a break."

From behind the steering wheel of the leading SUV, Daniel Pienaar frowned. "Well, I suppose that it might...qualify as inhumane. But even still, I don't..."

"God, Daniel, didn't we take an oath?"

"...no, we didn't, actually. We took an _affirmation_."

"The secular equivalent," quipped Arisaka from behind.

"All right, all right, I get it. Still, we have to do something about it."

"If you mind me asking, what are you talking about?"

Springfield momentarily glanced over her seat at the passenger sitting next to Greer, though 'prisoner' was probably a more appropriate word. Greer was still handcuffed, but he seemed fairly comfortable in the seat next to Arisaka, and had kept to himself for most of the trip so far.

Springfield smirked at him briefly, then her face appeared to soften. It wasn't often she took pity on her enemies. "…guess it couldn't hurt to tell you, seeing how you're effectively dead anyway."

_"Dead?" _Greer asked, in a very small voice.

"We've been holding a…well, a mob boss of sorts, in confinement without trial," she announced, as though she was relating the weather. "He's been subject to an interrogation that would make the CIA or the KGB blush."

Daniel reached upwards and adjusted the rear-view mirror. "Commander, I think telling him anything might be a bad ideal. A _very _bad idea."

"Oh, cut the man some slack. He's on the death-march, it won't hurt."

"Actually, where you're going isn't as concrete as a death…like a death with cement shoes..." Arisaka mumbled. She chuckled, and the three stared at her.

_What an awful pun. _"Get real, Arisaka. You know they never come back. What the hell do you think they do to them? 'Extract them from the System'? Don't tell me you believe that _crap_. It's not _emigration…_its _annihilation_. Like in _Nineteen-Eighty-Four_." She leaned towards him over the seat, grinning almost sadistically. "You won't even have existed. We wipe any trace of you from _this _plane of existence. That much I know. The only evidence that you ever existed is in our minds, and in the archives underneath the UN Secretariat." 

"Well, I wouldn't believe it either, if I hadn't seen those Agents dodge bullets or rip open freight doors with their own hands," Daniel admitted.

But by now, Greer was holding his face between his hands, whimpering.

"I think you might have upset him, _Okashira_," Arisaka mumbled.

"Well, reality sucks, don't it? We get paid, you get erased." Springfield sat back down in her seat. "No point in loosing sleep over it, of course. When bad shit happens, it...happens..."

"What a grand philosophy," Pienaar quipped. "You should really write a novel."

"Negative...I like existing. There's a lot of stuff you'll miss if you don't exist. Hong Kong cinema...sex…stand-up comedy…Arisaka…" she finished, chuckling.

Meanwhile, the actual individual Arisaka blinked upon hearing her voice. "Ah...thank you, commander..."

Greer whimpered, his face against his lap. Between the tears, he caught a glimpse of something flashing in the bottom of his pant leg.

"Getting back to the original problem," Pienaar mumbled. "I don't think you should be so vocal. If only because you don't want to upset the Agents." He voice lowered in pitch and took on a venomous air. "The last thing you do before you become an Agent...well, that would be to scream."

Just behind him, Arisaka let out a painful scream, causing Pienaar to veer sharply to the right and nearly into the midsection of a semi-trailer. Springfield spun around in her seat and stared. "What the hell was that? Arisaka, what happened?"

Greer sat shivering, with a small syringe in his right hand. "I didn't want to have to do it, it's just that I..."

He stopped talking when Arisaka closed a gloved hand around his throat, gagging him. "What...what was that? What did you...?" she began, speaking in a slow, almost articulate manner.

Springfield found herself shocked. She had never seen Arisaka truly angry before, and it was a startling sight. The anger didn't last long, as Arisaka kept one hand around Greer's throat.

One could tell by her facial expression that something was wrong. "_Okashira..._I can't...can't feel my body..."

Springfield's eyes bulged out. "WHAT?"

"I can't feel...anything…"

Greer was still being gagged, but finally got around to breaking himself free from Arisaka's numb grip and began banging his shoulder against the door. He heard Springfield scream something, and the glass window next to him splintered, a small bullet hole in the center.

He turned back to Springfield, and found himself staring down the barrel of a Beretta 92FS handgun. "What did you put in her, fucker?" She fired another shot off, grazing his cheek. "WHAT DID YOU PUT IN HER?"

Somewhere between being gagged and the second bullet, Greer had gone off the edge. He laughed nervously, blood rushing out of his face and into the wound in his cheek.

"You know, to be honest, I have no idea."

And with all his remaining strength, and with his wrists still handcuffed, he drove his elbow into the fractured glass, cracking it along with the bottom of his radial bone. Springfield swore again and was about to fire one into Greer's posterior when Pienaar screamed.

"NO! WE HAVE TO KEEP HIM ALIVE, REMEMBER?"

Outside, as the SUV cruised down the highway at one-hundred and fifty kilometers an hour, Greer slowly emerged from the window, the wind blowing blood into his eyes. He stared around, not realizing just how stupid and fundamentally flawed his escape plan had been. In a state of near-insanity, he spotted several handholds on back of the semi next to the SUV.

With his handcuffed hands, he reached out as far as he could, trying to reach them, but felt himself pulled back.

"No you don't you little fuck," Springfield screamed. She was reaching over her seat and had Greer's right shoe firmly in her grip. Unfortunately, the left one was still free, and upon hearing her, Greer made it impact with her face multiple times. Without her helmet or eye protection, Springfield had no choice but to let go after the sixth foot to the face, falling back into her seat.

Pienaar glanced away from the road briefly to see Springfield lying against the dashboard, with a large footprint-shaped bruise on her face and blood trickling from her mouth. "Oh no…this is bad, this is _really, really _bad." His right hand groped for the radio, which was underneath Springfield's shoulder.

On the other hand, a voice responded in good spirits. "_Howzit_?"

Pienaar frowned. "BRO! PUT ALEXI ON!"

"Fine…don't gotta' be rude about it…" There was a shuffling sound.

"_Da, tovarisch?"_

_God, everyone relaxes, and we can't understand each other! _"Alexi! Cut the commie crap...Greer injected some shit into Arisaka…she's gone numb, and he's getting out! He's GETTING OUT!' he screamed once he found it. He glanced back up at his rear-view mirror, realized what Greer was attempting to do, and veered to the right, away from the semi.

The sudden shift caused Greer to fall free from the car, but not before he just barely managed to grab onto a handhold. His body was pulled out of the SUV and swung against the backside of the semi's trailer.

_They're coming for you, Loki. You need to get out of there now. _

"Still…trying..." he mumbled. Slowly, one handhold at a time, he climbed upwards.

                        **VI**

With his earpiece, Agent Thompson clearly eavesdropped on the conversation between a panicking Daniel Pienaar and his brother, as the humans tried to remedy this worsening situation. Not that he had too; he could clearly see the candidate Greer slowly climbing up the side of a large vehicle.

"Never send humans to do a machine's job," Agent Jackson quipped, almost conceitedly.

"Should we step in?" Johnson asked, sounding as concerned as an Agent possibly could.

Thompson watched the top of the vehicle as the other SUV, driven by Charles Pienaar, accelerated past once the lane had cleared sufficiently.

The humans were trying something. He wasn't sure what, but he thought it would be worthwhile to watch.

"No. Let's see how they handle this."

In front of the Agent's BMW M5, the two SUVs exchanged positions, and Charles' began its approach. Some quick maneuvering and the SUV slid into the semi's lane, just before it. Inside, Charles ran his hand over his forehead nervously, and slowly let off the accelerator, one eye on his rear-view mirror.

_Come on, slow down, slow down._

"_Shittin'ell!_" he heard Enfield scream from the seat next to him. "He's not slowing down, he's just changing lanes, miserable bastard!"

Charles slammed his foot back down on the accelerator, returning to his prior speed, and began veering to the left, in the direction the semi had been moving. "All right, new plan. Enfield, open your door."

Enfield turned to him. "…you're shitting me."

_She certainly swears a lot under pressure. Not surprising, she's still a kid. _"Unless you have another idea on how to get him to _slow _down, no, I'm not." He had maneuvered the SUV so they were now in front of and to the left of the semi. He began to decelerate.

Enfield stared at him blankly, the lower half of her jaw hanging free, and opened her door.

Behind both them and the semi, the second SUV, driven by the other Pienaar Brother, did a similar maneuver, as the passenger side door opened. With some but not enough caution, Springfield slowly lowered herself out of the SUV.

"COMMANDER!" Daniel Pienaar screamed, trying to have himself heard over the sound of the interstate highway. "I THINK THIS IS A BAD IDEA!"

"You got a better one?" Lying out of the car door, her head a half-meter from the concrete, she frowned. "Forget that, I don't want to hear it." She looked above and away from the SUV, at the handholds on the semi's trailer. "Just get a little closer!"

Daniel bit down on his lips and slowly brought the SUV that much closer to the back of the semi, terrified that he might go too far and crush his commanding officer between them. Springfield took a deep breath and used her legs to lunge outwards from her seat, and managed to grab onto the handholds, if only barely. She quickly pulled herself up, one handhold after another, and dragged herself out of the SUV until her feet rested on the bottom handhold. Daniel immediately veered off, leaving her hanging from the trailer.

Climbing up the side of a trailer at such speeds was far harder than anyone might think, with the heavy vibrations and the air rushing past. One rung at a time, she slowly rose, until she could see something over the edge of the trailer top.

_Greer. You're mine._

In front and to the left of the semi, half-way out of the SUV herself, Enfield waved her arms out and screamed at the top of her lungs, trying to get the attention of the semi's driver. Unfortunately, no amount of cursing seemed to distract him from his focusing on the road ahead.

She turned to Charles. "Dammit, this isn't working!"

Mosin leaned from the back seat. "Maybe we should another approach. Anyone got a pen and some paper?"

"He didn't see her waving at him like a fool, I doubt he'll notice a tiny sign," Pienaar retorted.

Mosin nodded. "Good point." He reached briefly underneath his seat and pulled out something else, definitely not a pen or some paper. Enfield's eyed grew even larger. "What the hell's _that_?"

"Flare gun," Mosin chirped. "Used for...well, shooting flares. You can use it to get his attention..."

Pienaar looked over his shoulder. "Crazy Russian shrink! You think it's a little bright outside to fire a flare? And a little close?"

"Not into the air, _chajnik_! Into the door or something! You can't use your gun…a nine might go right through."

Enfield looked at the flare gun and took it from, then aimed at the car door. "You're sure this won't go through, _right_?"

Mosin shrugged. "Honestly, I can't say. I've never fired a flare gun at a car door before."

Enfield sighed. _And they call me an idiot. _She stared down the crude sights of the flare gun, and aimed at the car door. _This is what you get for not turning on your radio, generically stupid truck driver._

Enfield was hardly the only person aggravated at the turn of events. Springfield, despite having shed her body armor and exterior equipment, was slow to climb onto the top of the trailer. One of the reasons was that she was, understandably, absolutely terrified: she was standing atop a moving vehicle traveling at, she guessed, at least a hundred and sixty kilometers an hour, and she had no sort of protection besides her gray combat fatigues. Springfield, however, had long since learned to hide her fears, a skill of any highly successful soldier.

Keeping her center of gravity as low as possible, she stared down the trailer to see Greer lying flat, just before where the trailer met the vehicle that towed it.

"GREER!'

Greer looked up briefly, to reveal a face covered in blood from the wound on his cheek. Springfield winced, and felt the large bruise on one of her eyes. She lowered herself to a crawling stance and continued towards him.

"Greer, I know you can hear me!"

Greer looked up again, and this time, rested his chin so he could face her without effort. _Looks like I got his attention, at least._

"Listen, Greer, trust me, you don't want to die like this. Not as a giant red spot on the highway," she appealed to him. "So you're afraid, that's normal. And whatever you injected into Arisaka, my partner…well, she's not dead, so I guess I'll let it slide."

The semi drove underneath an overpass, briefly casting a shadow on them. "It doesn't get any worse than this, Greer. I don't like being on a truck on a highway, and I'm guessing you don't either. So how about we call it even, and you come back quietly?'

Greer seemed to think about this for a moment, and rolled over slightly, smearing blood over the trailer roof. "Will they kill me?"

Springfield sighed, and rolled her eyes. She wasn't sure why the Agents hadn't taken a step in this—hell, she didn't see why Agent Thompson simply didn't "jump" into Greers body and move it out of danger earlier. "I'm not going to lie to you, Greer. I don't really know. I actually have no idea what's going on here."

Greer nodded slowly, and rose to his feet.

"I'm…I'm just really tired."

Springfield sighed. "Yeah, you and me both."

Finally, it seemed over. She reached around her waist and removed her radio from its holster. "Charles, it's Karen. Tell EE..."

The semi hit a particularly bumpy stretch of rode, causing Springfield to fall to her feet and the radio to bounce out of her hand, and slide over to the back edge of the trailer. "_Shit!_" Springfield scrambled madly for it, nearly diving over the edge. Just as it seemed to fall over, she caught it in her right hand, nearly falling off herself.

In the front SUV, Charles smacked his radio against the dashboard. "Karen, what happened? KAREN?"

Mosin leaned over. "What was that?"

"She said something about Enfield, I didn't..."

"Roger, I got him!"

They both turned to here. "No, wait!"

Several things occurred in sequence then. First, aiming as carefully as she could for the truck door, Enfield squeezed the flare gun's trigger. She neglected to consider, however, the fact that flares travel considerably slower than bullets, even when fired from guns. Due to air pressure and movement, the flare failed to strike the car door slot. Rather, it smashed through the window and into the driver's cabin, filling it instantly with orange smoke.

Next, the driver, finding himself at the mercy of a visible and tear-inducing gas, not to mention the burning flare round that had landed in his lap, followed his immediate instinct of what to do next: he slammed his foot against the break, before squirming around madly, hoping to get whatever object was so ridiculously hot off of his pants.

Immediately after that, just as the semi began to decelerate at an alarming rapid rate, inertia caused both Springfield and Greer, on the top of the trailer, to fly forwards at roughly the same speed as the semi had been going before deceleration. Springfield, having been lying on the ground, benefited from friction and as she rolled up the trailer, began matching the speed of the semi, just in time so she could grasp onto one of the large exhaust valves sticking out of the top of the vehicle with her heat-resistance gloves. Unfortunately, the smooth, round metal surface of the exhaust didn't lend itself to gripping by gloves well, and she wasn't holding onto it for long.

Greer underwent a similar process. He had been in a crouched position, and towards the front of the trailer. Inertia had immediately knocked him off his feet, as well as off of the trailer and downwards into the street. Fortunately, he landed in an unoccupied stretch of highway in front of and to the left of the semi, and as with Springfield, began rolling in such a fashion that he began to slow down.

But even before Greer had come to a halt, Charles felt two heavy bumps as his car's suspension tried to compensate for something in the vehicle's way. At first, he thought nothing of it, until he realized that the blur that had appeared in front of him for a fraction of a second had been a human.

"KAREEEN!" he screamed into radio. "KAREN, RESPOND! KAREN!"

Charles waited for what seemed like an eternity, as Mosin and Enfield stared back as the semi continued decelerating, spewing orange smoke from the cabin.

"Chyort voz'mi..." Mosin mumbled staring at the driver's rapid, uncoordinated movements through the smoke.

"Oops," Enfield replied.

Mosin glanced at her. "That was a pretty big god-damn 'oops'. I think that was more of a 'faux-pah', you know."

"KAREN! SPEAK TO ME!"

The was a crackling sound from the radio, and a depressed, exhausted female voice responded. "What do you want, Charles?"

"Oh thank God…and I mean that in a relative sense…" Charles took a deep breath and continued. "…did I run you over?"

"No, you idiot, you did not run me over."

Enfield crossed herself and sighed. "Jesus bloody-Christ."

"You ran_ him _over."

The radio fell to the SUV's floor, and Charles sighed, and nearly rested his head on the driver's wheel.

"Yeah, I know. I ran over Greer."

                        **VII**

"It would seem as though they ran him over. The one they called 'Greer'."

As traffic had died down, the Agents' BMW M5 had come to a stop next to a large red pool on the highway with two tire trails leaving out of it. As cars whizzed past in the other lanes, Agent Thompson looked over the body. As was normal for him, he reached for the human's neck and checked for a pulse.

There wasn't one, of course. Greer was very much dead, as if the shattered ribcage and intensive bleeding were any indication. Thompson suspected that ever organ in the thoracic cavity was probably mutilated.

"Yes," he replied.

"A candidate for extraction has died. A prominent one, perhaps. They called him 'Loki'."

Thompson nodded. Agent Jackson, as usual, was right. He rose to his feet and turned towards the black sedan.

"Have them send a cleaning crew."

"And what of our orders?" Agent Johnson asked.

Thompson looked over his shoulder. "I will file a report. On many, many things."

With that, Agent Thompson entered the passenger side seat of the BMW. Agent Jackson glanced at his counterpart.

"Never send a human to do a machine's job."

**Author's Notes:**

HAH! I bet you thought I had given up on this, hadn't you? Okay...not quite, but I've been way to slow. I'm pretty satisfied with the way this one came out.

You know, I bet there already is a freedmind named Loki in the movies. Oh well.

Anyway, next chapter, guess what…more new characters! And they're not human this time! So…please read and review so I'll have a reason to continue!


	11. Contempt

**The Matrix: Deliverance **

**Segment 10 – Contempt**

"In recent news, local authorities are still searching for answers to an unexplained incident on highway involving a large trailer-truck and two unmarked black SUVs. The incident, which caused more than four miles of backed-up traffic, has been rumored to be caused by a mistake on the part of a federal agency..."

Lieutenant Mosin hit the mute button on the television remote and turned to his companion, Warrant Officer Charles Pienaar, who sat next to him in the lounge inside Union Plaza.

"See what you did?"

"Damn old _mampara_. You've _just now_ let that go, have you?"

"_Nyet_, I am not letting it go now, unless you mean I'm _never _going to let it go, in which case, _da_, you're right!" Mosin struck the mute button again, restoring the sound from the TV set. _It really depends on what he meant by 'just now'._ "And what is this 'mampara'?"

"It wasn't _my fault_."

"It was entirely your fault! You ran him over! He was not being dead until you decided to flatten him underneath your tires!"

"It was an accident!"

"So what? If I shot Springfield by mistake, would I be able to say it was an accident?"

Pienaar sighed and rose to his feet, and heading for the room's door.

"Where are you going?"

"Just to get something to eat, gramps."

"Hey! I heard that! You know, perhaps it would be better if you..." Mosin began as he spotted someone brushing past the door to the lounge. "…hey, Karen!"

Pienaar spun around. "If I _cared in_ what?"

Standing up, Mosin struck the back of Pienaar's hand and rushed off. "Karen! Hey, I have been looking for you...wait!"

Mosin stood up from his chair and left, only to return to pick up a rubber bag he had left on the table next to his chair, and swung around into the corridor to see Lieutenant Colonel Springfield, her shoulders hunched over, stumbling through the corridor. , are you all right?"

She turned to him. Her cheeks were bright red, her jaw slack, and her eyelids drooped. She raised a finger to her lips and went "shhhh!". She then held her head with both hands, completing the universal sign for someone nursing a bad hangover.

"Oh..._izvinit_. Uh, I'm sorry to bother you, but I have something to ask you…"

Springfield continued stumbling down the corridor until she reached a water fountain, from which she immediately plunged her face into, soaking it. She looked up at him, dripping water. "What is it, Alexi?"

Slightly taken back, Mosin continued. "Uh...da, well, I happened to want your advice on a matter, if that's all right with you..."

"Yeah, sure, Alexi, glad I could help ya' out." She stood up and leaned against the wall.

"You see, it has to deal with..."

"Just as long as it doesn't have _anything _to do with Agents, okay?" She glanced at him, and continued. "Because, incase you haven't noticed, I am the last human being on this planet…or in the Matrix…or _whatever_, that should be giving advice Agent-related matters, right? But if it has to do with anything else…sex, guns, good action-comedies…you've come to the right woman."

Mosin stared at her, failing to respond. She turned to him.

"You _were _going to ask me on something besides Agents, _right_?" She leaned towards him, so that he found himself staring at the metal identification tags resting down the front of her jumpsuit on a thin metal chain. "RIGHT?"

He bowed his head sheepishly. "_Nyet_…ah, actually, never mind."

Springfield nodded, putting her hands in her jumpsuit pockets. "Well then, I'll see you, Alexi."

He nodded. "_Schastliva_, kommandir." As she disappeared the corridor, he clenched the rubber bag nervously between his hands.

**II**

"Oh my God! OH MY GOD! LOOK, LOOK AT THIS!"

Arisaka opened her eyes and removed the large, heavy _manga_that rested on her head, and turned. She recalled that she had been resting on the bed in Enfield's room after a short conversation with corporal. She slowly sat up in the bed, her eyes first wandering on the bedsheet.

"Izumi! Izumi, look at this! You're not going to bloody believe it!"

"You know, Eechan, I realize you are younger then me…but you may wish to…how do you say...'loose' these _Azumanga__ Daioh_ bed sheets. I mean…you are a grown…"

"IZUMI, SHUT UP AND GET OVER HERE!"

Arisaka stared at her companion, who was sporting a T-shirt with a familiar blond haired culture icon with long ponytails, a tiara, and an absurdly short skirt, and sighed. "Never mind. Forget that I said anything." _These are the sort of people they let become Peacekeepers. Even worse, they give them guns. _"What's so important?"

"Look at this!" she exclaimed, pointing a finger at the monitor that rested on her desk. "Do you see this?"

Arisaka blinked. "_Hai_, of course."

She glanced at him. "_Well?_"

"…it's a flat screen monitor."

Enfield's lip twisted and she elbowed Arisaka in the side, relatively gently. "Look at the bloody screen, you twit."

Arisaka blinked her usually tired eyes. "Ah, I see now."

Enfield sighed triumphantly.

"This is that thing they call 'eBay', right? I've heard about this. 'Online auctions' or something like that, _hai_? You know, I wonder why they insist on using a little 'e'."

Enfield elbowed Arisaka again, this time with sufficient force to cause her to wince and put her hands on her stomach. "_Look at the picture of what they're selling, knobhead!_"

_What is a 'knobhead'_, Arisaka found herself wondering, as she focused in on the product displayed in the internet browser window. The product was a small stuffed doll, commonly called a 'plushie', with an oversized head sporting a mop of short, bright orange hair. As she stared at it, Arisaka found that the doll's large plastic eyes reminded her of someone she knew.

Enfield pointed it out immediately. "That doll looks _exactly like Karen! EXACTLY!_ It even has the same eyes!"

Arisaka cocked her head, and squinted. "_Hai_it does." She looked down at Enfield. "...and…?"

"…_and_ I'm going to buy all of them. They're only two left, it seems..." She began feeling around the pockets of her pants, until she produced a wallet. Inside was a small plastic card bearing the United Nations insignia, as well as the words 'VISA'.

Upon seeing the card, Arisaka's eyes buldged noticeable. "_Cho__…chotomatte_! You can't use that! It's not for personal expenses!"

Enfield rolled her eyes. "Come on, Izumi." She began to speak as though the other was a baby. "Are you afraid that one of the big bad Agents might find out?"

In truth, Arisaka was much more afraid that Lieutenant-Colonel Springfield might find out. But she also knew that it was useless to try to sway Enfield, so she returned to her bed. As Enfield completed the transaction, charging the fee to an account supplied by the United Nations, she glanced back at the resting Arisaka. "You know, you seem tired. More so than usual, which is saying a great deal."

"Atropine," Arisaka mumbled. "Dr. Akasi warned for me to remain in bed, that'd I'd best avoid cheating death for a while."

"I guess that makes sense…" she retorted, her hands rapidly striking keys. She turned to her again. "Atrophine...what exactly was that…?"

"I didn't really pay attention to the details…" Arisaka mumbled, shifting underneath the cartoon-themed bed sheets. "Some sort of very potent sedative. They use it to reduce the effects of nerve gases."

She spun her chair around to face the bed. "…can I get some of it?"

**III**

_You know, I really don't see why people use makeup. If you want to make your cheeks glow, slap them real hard. _

Lieutenant-Colonel Springfield looked up from the sink briefly, and inspected her reflection. She thought back to high school, when a close friend of her had told her that she could have been a actress if she hadn't been so 'butch'.

She smirked. _Maybe.__ But on its worse day, being a Peacekeeper is only half as bad as being an actress._

She rinsed her face again, and grabbed a towel, drying it. In the room above her, Lieutenant Mosin sat in an office that had been completely emptied, except for a metal table and a similar folding chair. On the desk, in front of him, was a large rubber bag.

Sighing, he pulled down the zipper, and lifted the bag up, shaking the contents out. A clear plastic bag, with a large heavy object inside it, fell out and struck the metal table loudly.

Mosin stared blankly at the plastic bag. Inside was a gun covered with a thin layer of red liquid film. Not just any gun though, it was the IMI Desert Eagle that had belonged to Agent Thompson. When Agent Thompson had separated his right arm from his body in order to continue fighting those Pre-Agents a few days ago, it was Mosin whom had been present. Mosin did was seemed logical: he made himself useful, and emptied his assault rifle into the two albino Pre-Agents. While it had not hurt him, it did cause the two Twins to turn their attention from Thompson to himself, and Mosin took off.

In the ensuing chaos, Mosin managed to return to where Thompson had last been, only to find him and the woman he had been with gone. What he did find, however, was a police officer, missing one of his arms.

And in the other arm, was an excessively large and blood-stained handgun.

Mosin should have walked away. He should have returned to his vehicle and then looked for Agent Thompson, now with a new host. But curiosity had, not surprisingly, gotten the better of him.

He returned to his vehicle, where he found Thompson and a woman he had met at the location waiting, with the gun hidden inside a bag, amongst the various pockets in his body armor.

Now the thing had been hanging over him like a bomb, waiting to explode, for the past few days. Mosin was not aware if he was breaking any unspoken rules, but possession of the weapon left him feeling nervous and worried. Every time he felt the rubber bag he had stored it in, he was reminded by the fact that, in a second, an Agent could occupy his body, indefinitely.

It was a different sort of fear then what Mosin was used to, but it was definitely fear.

He held the gun up in the plastic bag, looking at it. Mosin didn't know a great deal about guns, despite having been in the _Spetsnaz_, but he knew there was something unusual about it, besides its size and fundamental impracticality. The gun seemed to have a commanding presence, perhaps a result of its size, as well as its high-polished sheen that remained, despite the blood and scuff marks.

_It's probably not even 'blood'_. He jammed the handgun back into the rubber bag as he heard footsteps pass by, and spun around, hiding it behind his back.

Agent Jackson, or at least, that's who he thought it was, passed by the doorway, not pausing to look at Mosin. The Ukrainian born swallowed nervously and went after him.

"Ah…Com…Comrade Agent!" The addition of the multipurpose title 'Comrade' was simply a way of avoiding having to address the Agent by name. "Comrade Agent!"

Just as Mosin emerged from the door, he was greeted by the oppressive sunglasses of Agent Jackson, beading down at him, nearly causing him to fall back into the room. Agent Jackson said nothing, simply looking at him, devoid of any emotion, or any movement, it seemed.

Mosin regained his step and opened his mouth to speak, only to find that his mouth was completely dry. Jackson watched as his mouth opened and closed in a mechanical fashion, until Mosin simply backed into the room and shut the door after him.

Agent Jackson cocked his head slightly, turned around, and carried on with the task at hand.

**IV**

Agent Jackson was hardly the only Agent with a task at hand. For the guardian programs, inactivity was not only undesirable—it was a fault. As long as they existed, there was something that could be done. For without activity, there was no purpose, and without purpose, there was no reason for being.

This was one way of interpreting Agent Thompson's cognitive processes as he sat in his office, laying back in his chair, his entire consciousness focusing at the earpiece inserted in his right ear.

He was in the process of sending a document to the Architect. It was his report—a report on how the natural, unavoidable flaws of the humans had resulted in the death of a candidate for extraction, and ultimately, would result in many more. In it, he emphasized the fact that it was not necessarily the 'fault' of the humans, so much as their nature as organic beings.

So, in short, the humans could not fully be blamed. If they replaced with more humans, the same problems would invariably rise again. Humans were not only subject to failure, like Machines, but they were prone to mistakes and errors.

In short, Agent Thompson requested assistance in the form of new sentient programs. And there was only one way that the Architect would interpret this.

Thompson wanted more Agents.

Just as he was transmitting to the core network of the Matrix, his physical body experienced external stimuli. As he 'came to', he was aware that the phone on his desk was ringing. He reached over and pressed the 'Speakerphone' key.

"Agent Thompson?" It was the Human Myers, from the Cafeteria. If Thompson had lungs, and emotion, he would have sighed.

"Yes, Mrs. Myers?"

"That prisoner, Persephone…she's complaining that she's hungry again. She keeps making this banging noise."

Earlier, Thompson had ordered that Persephone be deprived of her high-heel shoes, on the grounds that she had been idly striking it against the door, resulting in an irritating but regular noise. Apparently, that had not been sufficient, and she had found something else to bang against the door, perhaps a piece of furniture or her head.

Persephone, for the most part, was left to her own devices. On the few occasions where an Agent visited her, specifically Jackson, she would proceed with her regular routine of what humans called 'flirting', followed by a list of wants. Technically, Persephone was under the same status as Raye Nosredna…but unlike Nosredna, Persephone was not human, and, in Thompson's opinion, should have no need for nourishment, activity, or anything else.

As a result, Persephone had few visits. And everyone else in Union Plaza had to put up with the noise of her presence.

"It wouldn't hurt for us to send one of the girls from the kitchen, would it? I mean, with a proper escort of course," Myers suggested. "If it'll give us some peace."

Thompson nodded. Originally, Persephone had been held on the Medical Level, but the Physician Akasi had her transferred, on the grounds that she could not work with that racket. It was important for her to be held on an occupied level, and as a result, she was held on the same level as the cafeteria, much to the dismay of the Maintenance Staff. Myers and her staff had tried to drown it out with music, but had little luck.

There were few situations where Thompson sympathized with humans. Most of them involved painful and gruesome deaths of human allies. But Thompson's dislike of Persephone was growing, and he found himself relating to the position of the Maintenance Staff. Against his better judgment, he did not disconnect the line.

Instead, he responded. "Very well. Then you will send one of your personnel in, escorted, to deliver her a reasonable amount of nourishment. She is to have no other comforts."

"Completely understood, Mr. Thompson, and on behalf of all of us at the kitchen, we'd like to thank..."

Before Myers could finish, Thompson struck the Speakerphone key, disconnecting her. With his right index finger, he adjusted his earpiece slightly and returned to his previous activity, only for a fraction of a second considering the possible threat of the Program Persephone.

Several floors beneath him, at the Cafeteria, the humans were more seriously considering the threat of the Program Persephone.

Except for one, it seemed. Nabiki Ikari, a twenty-two year old junior assistant in the Human Supplies Staff of the Maintenance Division, stood in the middle of several members of the Equipment Supplies Staff of the Maintenance Division. These men, primarily mechanics, were in the process of preparing to send her in with a sentient program, the likes of which they had never faced before, with the exception of the Agents.

Chief Technician Gray Richards stepped before her, holding a heavy vest. "This, little lady, is body armor. Kevlar with a synthetic silk weave, or something like that. In theory, it'll stop a nine at point blank range…lot lighter than that sand-filled stuff they used to use back in the day."

Nabiki cocked an eyebrow. "Uh, that's great, Dick, but…uh…since when is she planning to shoot me?"

A mechanic looked up from her left leg, which she was strapping a kneepad to. "She's got a point, boss. We'd probably one kinetic armor…shock dispersion, not absorption."

Gray looked down at the armor vest, and flung it against the floor. He turned to Mrs. Myers, who was observing skeptically. "You don't have any really thick aprons, do you?"

Myers rolled her eyes. "Yes, along with the bullet-deflecting knives."

Gray turned to Nabiki. "Be careful, but you don't have to worry, probably. The second something happens, we'll have a dozen armed guards on top of her."

Behind her, a member of the kitchen staff who overheard Gray laughed, and Nabiki sighed. "All right, all right, but I...I just don't think she's that big a deal. I mean, she's the guy's wife right? Kind of like a mobster wife..." Nabiki's mind drifted to a memory of a news report in which a wife of a famed organized crime boss was confronted by police during vacations, and put six 38-caliber slugs into one of the city's finest. Nabiki swallowed, her fists tightening. "You guys better pay attention, okay?"

Gray turned to an officer from the Security Division, who nodded and cocked his sub-machinegun. Another cook, Nabiki's age, rushed up to her holding a tray. On it was some cream-colored stew in a cup, a few slices of bread, and some unidentifiable brown meat sliced into multiple pieces. She two more mechanics strapped on arm pads, Nabiki took the tray and nodded.

"Whenever you're ready, Miss Ikari."

Nabiki nodded and exited the cafeteria, tray in hand. A short walk down the corridor led to a bolted steel door guarded by two men with sub-machineguns. Through the door, one could hear a low, banging noise, resonating through the hallway at a regular beat.

_I wonder if she takes requests_, Nabiki wondered as the guards exchanged some words, and proceeded to open the door, causing the banging noise to immediately stop before it slid open. They then took defensive positions around the doorway, as Nabiki stepped into the darkness, tray in hand.

She looked around, unable to see. "Uh, can one of you guys turn on the light? Kinda' dark in here."

The guards mumbled something, and she heard the click of a switch being flipped. Light flooded the room, forcing her to wince, her pupils contracting. When she regained vision, she saw a blurry figure sitting on a lone metal chair in the back of the room.

Nabiki nodded, and set the tray down on the floor in front of her. The prisoner said nothing, simply staring back.

"You must be Ms. Persephone," she began. "You know, I heard a lot about you."

Persephone smiled at her, daintily, her heels together on the floor. "Is that so?" It was less of a question and more of a rhetorical statement.

Nabiki frowned. "You've gained celebrity status, thanks to that racket you insist on making."

More smiling, followed by a glance at the tray. "It worked, didn't it?"

The younger woman grunted. "I suppose it did. Kudos for that."

The relatively ancient program glanced at the guards, who were peaking through the doorway. "You want me to stop with my _music_?"

"If you wanna' call it that, yeah, we do."

"Then close the door."

The request caught her off guard, even if it shouldn't have. Nabiki glanced over her shoulder, and turned. "Uh…subject…requests that I close the door."

Outside, Gray turned to Myers. "Shit, I knew we should've called Cohen about this. He seemed very curious about it, but it seemed like such a minor issue.."

"Can we still monitor her?"

Gray frowned, and turned to the nearest security officer. "Private?"

The private replicated the frown. "Every office in the plaza is covered with a camera, excluding the executive suites. That one must as well, though it'd have to be accessed later by someone of..."

"Call Corporal Cohen about it," Myers interrupted him.

The private looked at her. "Uh, yes, of course. He'd probably like to be updated on the situation anyway."

Myers nodded slowly as the private shuffled off, radio in hand. Gray looked at her oddly, then nodded at the guards, who slowly closed the doors.

Nabiki heard the doors slam shut behind her, sealing her off from the others. Her posture relaxed slightly, and she leaned against one of the walls.

Persephone stood up from her chair and stepped over the tray, slowly approaching her. "So, then, where should we begin?"

**V**

"Need a change of clothes, Doc?"

Dr. Akasi looked up from her subject. In the doorway stood Lieutenant-Colonel Springfield, grinning smugly. Akasi glanced down at her normally pristine lab coat: just underneath the right breast pocket was a large red streak that reached down to the tips.

Springfield continued into the main laboratory on the Medical Level. She glanced at the red stain, than at Akasi's subject. "I hope that wasn't you, kid."

Akasi's subject, Raye A. Nosredna, shook her head. "Heh, no…at least, I hope not."

Akasi sighed and took off her white coat, revealing a jumpsuit reminiscent to that warn by almost all the humans in Union Plaza, but lacking sleeves. "It's from the Frenchman. Today's session was particularly…proactive."

Springfield nodded. "'Proactive' as in 'violent' and 'gruesome'?"

"If you say so, Colonel."

Springfield grinned again, unnerving Raye more than a little. Akasi was one of the few people that the Commander of Union Plaza she smiled at without obviously apparent feelings of malice. Perhaps it stemmed from the fact that she was the building physician. But even then, it was still rather unusual from what seemed like such an angry individual.

Springfield exhibited even more friendly behavior when she came up to Akasi's side and rested her head over her bare shoulder, throwing her arm over the other, and looked over at Raye. "So, what's up, doc?"

"You're not amusing, Colonel."

"Yeah, I know. Job'll do that to you."

Springfield glanced at Raye. "She is the _only _one who still calls me that. For everyone else, it's just 'Commander' or 'Karen'…and 'Okashira', whatever the heck that means." She glanced at Raye. "You know, I don't think we've formally met. You're the doc's guinea pig, eh?"

Raye reached up and yanked a suction cup from her forehead. Behind her, a machine emitted a warning tone. "Yes, I suppose so, Miss Springfield."

Springfield blinked. "There's a new one. 'Miss Springfield'. Damn, I haven't been called that since I was in school." She circled Akasi and sat on the examination bed next to Raye. "To tell ya' the truth, I've really been meaning to talk with you about a couple things, I've just been to busy."

_Uh oh, more questions_. "Well, I don't know if I can help you, but I'll answer anything I can."

Springfield waved her hand casually. "Don't worry! It's nothing major, I just figure I should get to know you better, seeing how we're keeping you prisoner here."

Akasi sighed, squirmed her way from Springfield, and turned away, exiting the room and leaving Springfield and Raye by themselves.

Raye cocked her head. "I wouldn't say I'm prisoner or anything…"

"Can you leave?" Springfield interrupted.

"…well, no, but…"

"You're a prisoner."

Raye sighed. "All right. I'm sorry for trying to put a positive spin on my situation."

Springfield smacked Raye on the back cheerfully. "Welcome to life in the Matrix. It sucks, don't it?"

Raye nodded slowly. "I suppose that things have been turbulent since I've come here. But it's still better before I came here."

"Speaking of which, I've been meaning to ask you about that. Where _were _you…"

"KAREN! I need to talk to you!"

"Hey, you, get back here! Now people can just come in and out of my lab as they please?"

Springfield and Raye turned to see Mosin jogging up to the glass door of the office, only to crash into it. Mosin stepped back, shook his head, and pushed the door open. "Damn glass. Really should not keep it so clean." Mosin entered the lab and closed the glass door after him, pressing himself against it. A few seconds later, Akasi reached the door and attempted to push it open, and was unable.

"Lieutenant Mosin, open this door, and get OUT OF MY LAB!"

Mosin looked over his shoulder. "So Karen can come in here when she likes, and I cannot?"

"That's only because I can't order _Colonel Springfield _out, but I can order you out, now GET OUT AND LET ME IN!"

Springfield frowned slightly. "That hurt, Akasi."

"OPEN THIS DOOR!"

"In just a moment." Mosin turned to Springfield. "I have something for you, Colonel. Something very important."

Springfield blinked. "Alexi, I like you too, but don't you think we're rushing things?" she asked sarcastically.

"Very amusing, Karen," Mosin replied, pronouncing it 'wary'. He removed a rubber bag from underneath his arm and tossed it at Springfield, who caught it.

Springfield glanced at the rubber bag, and pulled the zipper open. "What is it?"

"Exactly what you think it is."

Springfield reached into the rubber bag and slowly pulled out a heavy metal object inside another bag, this one plastic. She held it in one of her hands and looked at Springfield. "You're kidding."

He shook his head. "Nyet."

A hard shove to the door knocked Mosin forward, allowing the physician to reenter the lab. "Everyone, OUT. _NOW!_ That includes you, Springfield!"

Mosin held up his hands defensively. "Alright, alright. Colonel?"

Springfield was still staring at the contents of the plastic bag, but slowly strolled over to the door, and the two left together. Akasi sighed, rubbed her temples, and returned to the examination bed. "God, sometimes I forget that, at the end of the day, they're all just idiot soldiers."

Outside the lab, Colonel Springfield, having completely forgotten her questions to Raye, inspected the contents of the plastic bag: an IMI Desert Eagle. She sighted it as best she could, finding the aiming points through the bag. "So this is what you've been so nervous about, huh?"

Mosin nodded. "Understand, I came to one of two solutions: either the Agents did not care that I had their weapon, or they were simply bidding their time. Remember, they can occupy any of us as a host at any time."

Springfield lowered it and continued staring. "The red stuff…blood?"

"I have no idea. But I know it came from the body of Agent Thompson."

_That doesn't mean its blood. Doesn't mean it's not either. _She held it in her hand by the grip. "It's heavy. Very heavy, considering its empty."

Mosin blinked. "You see, that's why I gave it to you. Besides how to use them, I do not know that much about firearms. Most of the ones I used are inherently simple, anyway." He gestured with his right hand, "Point and shoot." Mosin glanced back down at the bag, "So, what are you going to do now?"

"Probably have a light meal, and a nap."

"You really do like irritating, do you not?"

Springfield raised the gun and, through the plastic, sighted it at Mosin's head. "That's what subordinates are for, Mosin. You were in the army, you should know that." She lowered the gun to her side. "Besides, I'm supposed to go meet Cohen about something to do with prisoners…regulations or something…"

Mosin seemed to loose himself in thought for a few moments, then fall back to reality. "_Da_, I suppose that is the case._ Dobre den, Colonel."_

**VI**

From his desk, Corporal Cohen stared at the high-resolution security monitors that lined the walls and hung from the ceiling of the Security Level of the basement. Currently, he was watching the footage of the meeting between Nabiki Ikari and the Program Persephone.

_In about thirty seconds, the door will open_, he thought, staring out of the corner of his eye at the main exit. _And that nincompoop Springfield will come marching in, all friendly like, going, "Hi, Cohen! Sorry about that little thing about running over Greer…no hard feelings, right? For embarrassing Union Plaza in front of the Agents and the UN?_

There was the sound of air hissing, and the heavy metal security door slowly opened. An impatient Springfield began squeezing herself soon as early as possible, grunting and groaning. Cohen's eyes returned to the monitor, staring straight ahead and upwards.

"Hey! Cohen!" Springfield began, as soon as she fell through the sliding door. "Long time no see!" Her voice was heavy with the friendly, buddy-buddy tone.

Cohen frowned at the monitor, watching the repeat of Nabiki Ikari setting down a tray in front of the prisoner, then the blurry image of the prisoner giving Nabiki her clothes, than Nabiki promptly leaving. "Can I help you, Commander Springfield?"

Springfield sighed. "Yeah, I figured you'd still be upset about that whole thing with Greer..."

Cohen thought back to the day before, when he had subjected Springfield to a two-hour long interaction, an interaction that consisted primarily of Cohen yelling at Springfield and Springfield picking her teeth with a combat knife.

Springfield sat down at an empty chair behind a control console. She looked around at the other empty seats and computer stations. "Where is everyone?"

"On leave," Cohen mumbled, watching the repeat of the security recording.

She nodded, spinning the chair around on its base. "That's probably a good call, yeah."

Cohen mumbled something, adjusting his light-blue collar shirt and his black tie. Springfield sighed, resting her head against the console.

"Okay, all right, Cohen…" she mumbled against the console. "You don't like me. And I don't like you. And it we're only gonna' hate each other more, at this rate. So why don't you just give me the tapes for the camera in Persephone's room, and I can leave you alone to do whatever it is you do…I dunno'…get off to the tapes of the women's showers or…"

She stopped when a clay mug emblazoned with the United Nations' insignia shattered against the console, only a few centimeters from her face. She jolted upwards and turned to see Cohen's fingers striking a few keys at his station, causing the video he had been watching to disappear and a disk to pop out on a tray. He picked up the disk, circled the station, and held it at her.

Springfield slowly stood up, and took the disk from him, putting it in one of her jumpsuit pockets.

Cohen smirked at her. "We don't use cassette tapes anymore, Colonel. You _should_ know that. Nor do we have cameras in the restrooms." _And even if we did…_

Springfield stared at Cohen, her face devoid of its usual confidence and strength, and slowly wandered out of the Security Level, leaving Cohen alone. As soon as he heard the air hissing as the security door sealed shut, he exhaled deeply and loosened his tie.

_What a deceitful web we weave_, he thought, as he pressed a key on the console. The same monitor lit back up, revealing the view of Nabiki Ikari and the Program Persephone.

However, the actions were different.

After setting down the tray, Nabiki exchanged a few inaudible words with Persephone, waited for the later to discard her dirty dress, and instead of just leaving, the two shook hands.

This footage was different. Different and real.

**VII**

In the distance, two children tossed a plastic disk between them, along with a program simulating a _Canis__ familiaris_, the common domesticated dog.

He watched them, engaged in their own world, their thoughts on nothing but their current activities. Being all-knowing, omnipotent, and the closest thing to the human definition of 'God', He was not impressed with their carefree nature. Their current activity, while without purpose, was an invariably consequence of the human need for _choice_, something He still didn't fully grasp.

Dressed in His typical light-gray suit and tie, He adjusted his position on the park bench.

He disliked waiting, particularly waiting due to an inefficiency of some sort, which was usually his reason for waiting. Still, it had to be done. Some things were important enough that they warranted His time.

Thankfully, He was not kept waiting long.

Across the grassy knoll, He spotted a human form hiking towards Him, bringing a slight smile to his face.

The human, dressed in a gray-blue uniform, finally reached Him, gasping for breath. It had been a long walk from the human's van.

"Excuse me…sir…"

The Architect, the highest ranking decisions-making entity in the Matrix and the primary System Administrator, looked directly at the human. "Yes?"

The human gasped for breath, nearly falling to his knees. "…United…United States Postal Office." He slowly dragged himself to the Architect's bench, nearly collapsing on it, but managing to retain his step. "I...I'm sorry to bother you..."

"No trouble," the Architect responded calmly, with the hint of disappointment behind his voice.

"But I was under instructions to deliver this letter to a man…waiting…at this exact location, at this exact time…" The US Postman reached into his mailbag and handed the Architect a tan-colored envelope covered with various stamps and stickers.

The Architect took it from him and set it on the bench next to Him. The Postman nodded, and produced an electronic pad with a stylus. "Please sign."

The Architect nodded and signed in elegant script quickly. The Postman took the electronic pad, briefly glancing at the name on the pad.

_Archibald Tesseract? What the hell kinda' name is that?_ The US Postman gave the Architect one last polite nod, and prepared to make the long journey back to his van, on the opposite side of the park.

Alone once more, the Architect carefully opened the envelope and opened it, revealing several sheets of paper marked with rows and rows of 'ones' and 'zeros'. He glanced at the header.

01000111011101010110000101110010011001000101010001101000011011110110  
11010111000001110011011011110110111000100000001011010010000001010011  
01111001011100110100000101100100011011010110100101101110010000010111  
001001100011011010000110100101110100011001010110001101110100

It translated, to "_GuardThompson__" _hyphen "_SysAdminArchitect__"_. This literally was binary, an ancient language of machines. Perhaps 'Machines' wasn't the right word…binary was the language of the Pre-Machines, the computers that existed prior to the development of true Artificial Intelligence, of sentient computers. The development of intelligent, decision-making 'computers' as they were called required a new base-system, a departure from the limitations of binary. The end result was a new 314-character system developed in Germany, which the humans called Psuedocode, shortened to 'Psucode'. Psucode, which in its own language was simple 'Code', became the basic language for every computer and machine manufactured from that point onwards, and was still in use after the human defeat—the Machines had found it more efficient to retain 'Code', rather than reformat and reprogram every single member of their race. The Matrix Source itself was broadcasted in Code, and the Zionists regularly stared at it in their hovercrafts, and due to a strange quirk in the frequency of the visible light spectrum, it appeared to have a distinct green hue to it.

The green hue was one of the few uncorrectable errors in the Matrix. Machines did not usually notice it, as few of them selectively used the part of the light spectrum visible to human. But on certain days, humans in the Matrix found themselves wondering why everything just seemed "so damn green". The Architect, and a whole committee of sentient programs, had tried to address the problem, but had no success. Like the deja-vu issue, the fact that Machines, in the end, were not truly human, meant that it could not be corrected.

The Architect's eyes scrolled over the lines of binary characters, both of them, reading intently. His impression of the Guardian Program Thompson was only based on Thompson's performance over the past decades—the two had never 'met', either 'in person' in the Matrix or in the System Mainframe. If the Architect was to rate 'Agents' on a scale of one to ten, as humans would do with one another, with Smith's outstanding career (prior to its end) being a ten, Thompson came in at a nine, or at least an eight-point-six.

The Architect was not 'fond' of Thompson. He was not fond of anyone, whether or not He knew them well.

Thompson had been chosen for the special assignment of extracting humans from the Matrix and delivering them to the Zionists. The Architect had been monitoring him, his subordinate programs Johnson and Jackson, and the humans whom had assisting him, Zionist or otherwise.

Thompson's request didn't surprise the Architect in the least. In truth, _nothing _in the Matrix surprised the Architect. However, a human of average intelligence could have seen Thompson's request coming, had one watched his action and those of the humans.

While he never admitted it directly, and only vaguely hinted at it, Thompson wanted help. And a very specific kind of help at that: he wanted more programs. The humans were 'unsatisfactory', as he put it. To use the phrase ever-popular with Guardians throughout time, they were "only human".

The Architect took His eyes away from the paper in His hands. He felt His jaw clenching, a distinctly human reflex.

Guardian Programs were among the rarer, more important programs, given that they were sentient. As of late, there were twenty-seven of them in the Matrix that were s till on active duty, and perhaps a few dozen more who had gone 'Rogue' one way or the other. They were more 'select' in this version of the Matrix than any other—the previous version had forty Guardians, in working in pairs, while the one prior to that had fifty-four. It was a matter of achieving the balance between the quality of the individual guardians, versus the risk of giving too much power to a program that, ultimately, would be replaced, but being sentient, might also oppose it.

The 'Agents' were trumped by the System Administrator as the most efficient form of any guardian program created. They were the pinnacle of centuries of study of Zionist tactics and human behavior in general. Agents blended in _with_ humans and worked better _with_ humans than any of their predecessors, the SysAdmin claimed, while being even more effective then their predecessors as anti-human countermeasure programs. Of course, these boasts might have just been part of her enormous ego as the supervisor of Agent creation, but there did seem to be a lot of truth behind it. After all, hadn't an Agent been selected as the machine aspect of the Anomaly in this version of the Matrix? The Program Smith was a first for the Machines.

He wouldn't ignore Thompson's request. Thompson wouldn't have made it unless he thought it was ultimately the most effective decision, if only from his standpoint. He would contact the appropriate System Administrator, as well as the lower, creative program she controlled, the so-called Tailor.

She and he would decide.

**Author's Notes:**

So, coming up, what you all want—I hope—more Agents! And a plot! Conspiracy within Union Plaza! Fanservice!


End file.
